Triple Grande 140 Degree No Foam Cinnamon Dolce Latte With Caramel On The Whip

(In honor of my baby sister's birthday, today. I love you, sweetie!)


The coffee shop is packed, as usual.
I shake the wind out of my overcoat as I scan the throng around the counter for the end of the line.
Spiky-haired, strategically pierced baristas dart back and forth behind pastry-filled glass in a symphony of efficiency, delivering my order in quick time.
Hurriedly stowing my change in the pocket of my coat, I pivot carefully to avoid sloshing, and silently thrill at the sight of an empty black tabletop just a couple of feet away. Sliding sideways between a pair of large men waiting to add cream and sugar, I reach the table, coming face to face with another equally thrilled patron. Our faces fall, in tandem.
“Oh, that’s ok, you take it.”, I offer, turning slightly.
He hesitates just a moment before setting his cup on the black lacquered surface. I hear the rustling of fabrics as I begin a new search.
“There are three chairs…” he offers, removing his coat to drape it over the back of one of them.
I look down at them. He is right. There are three.
I raise an appreciative smile to his statement of the obvious before placing my cup across from his.
“Thank you.”
I move the chair slightly to ensure I am out of the way of those at the next table, which is only inches away and fully occupied, before sitting. My overcoat parts as I cross my legs and bend to reach into the bag I placed at my feet. I sip as I read my list, doing a mental tally of the time required to complete my day.
In my periphery, the man continues to stand and though I’m not looking at him, I am aware that he is removing something sweet and gooey from a small, white paper bag. He sits the pastry, still nestled inside it’s wax paper sheath, in the center of the table.
A tug of my dangling foot draws my attention to the fact that the heel of my shoe is entangled in a swath of brightly colored fabric fashioned into a skirt and worn by a large woman attempting to squeeze between the tables. I grab for my shoe as she turns with a frown.
“Sorry”, I mutter sheepishly.
She reaches to loosen herself, gracing me with a smile.
“Oh, that’s ok, honey. This place is a zoo!”
“Join us?” It is the man speaking.
She looks around the crowded shop for just a moment before sighing, heavily.
“Well, sure. Why not?” Removing her coat requires more space than is available and I struggle to hide my amusement as a button from her sleeve slides into another patron’s hair and, as she turns to apologize, her ample hips threaten to upset our table.
“There!” She heaves a sigh as she swallows a chair.
We sip quietly.
“It’s my birthday.” The man, again.
“Really? Well, isn’t that nice!” The woman’s voice is louder.
Three pairs of stranger’s eyes meet at the pastry-filled center of the table.
“Anyone for cake?” he asks.
My eyes meet his in surprise, before seeking hers in question.
"Just a minute, honey." The table sways, again, as the woman maneuvers to retrieve her large handbag. "My husband used to say I carried everything but the kitchen sink in this thing. Give me a second."
An unsuspecting passer-by catches an elbow to the back as she rifles through the bag, industriously.
"There!", she says again as she produces a single yellow birthday candle from the morass. Reaching for her napkin, she slides it over the wax before burying the tip of the candle into his pastry.

I steal a glance at the man whose face, again, mirrors mine, with large eyes, and the slightly parted lips of wonder.
The woman slings her gaze upon both of us in one movement before laughing, merrily.
"It's your birthday, honey! Make a wish!"

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll