Alone on a Sunday on the weekend of Labor Day, I think about the possiblilies for the day.
No friends have called with invitations, and He is sailing, sailing away again, as if he might never return.
In lieu of going out in the car, I decide to breakfast at the Regency. I can walk there in no time at all, and perhaps I might meet one of the neighbors to talk with.
When I get there, Chris, the owner/baker is relaxing outside. I get a nice smile, his curly almond colored hair peeking out of his perpetual baseball cap, his eyes, bright in recognition of a semi-regular customer. Generally, I only go once a week, it being expensive to eat out every morning, and I have a date with my neighbor Mari on the next street. She is busy as a rule, and this is our one time together, though she admits to popping in several extra times a week for her daily au lait.
Having exchanged pleasantries with Chris, I go and order my treat for the day, orange plum scone and accidentally latte instead of au lait, with a bit of caramel syrup.
"I'll be outside" I inform the new girl at the register. In fact, everyone is new, and not knowing the facts of their disposition; school, fired, just left, I have to suspect a new regime with none of the colorful regulars to inspire mutiny among the ranks.
I retire with my scone to a black mesh table under the basically unnecessary awning, as it is on the shady side of the street, and pick up my book; interesting enough and well written, but the narrator is back, and I find nearly everything around me diverting and interesting. My internal companion, speaking in my head, will not stop talking, pointing out the interesting and mundane in no specific order.
Chris himself brings my drink, which is when I can tell, by the inscribed feather in the foam, that I have ordered the latte, with espresso, instead of the au lait, with regular coffee. Some days the latte is kind of bitter, but today, with the inclusion of a heavy dose of caramel, is maybe a bit too sweet, but the dark gritty flavor comes through making it totally indulgent.
As I read, I try to measure out the scone to last until I have finished my beverage, but that's just not going to happen. The two flavors, melded with the butter and flour make a soft crumbly pastry, and it is gone though thoroughly savored, before I have finished drinking.
I love it when I get the feather in my drink, and earlier, months before, I thought I was getting special treatment, a little picture just for me. It is a bad habit my sister chides me for, ascribing specialness to myself. In point of fact, I do not actually think it a bad habit, and also believe myself to be an outsider as I am treated as such by the general public.
With every sip, I expect the feather to disappear, and yet, it remains, long after I am convinced it should. The foam on the coffee is very fine and thick, and I can not drink it separately, but combined with the espresso below. Towards the bottom of the cup, the feather, barely changed, the sweetness becomes cloying, but I must finish to find out the end of my quest. Will it remain in the cup, sitting on the bottom, or will it be quaffed three quarters of the way down?
As it happens, the image does not dispel until the last sip, leaving the slightest tracing of white in a coating that looks like the fur on an elk's antlers, velvety and uncompromised. I wonder if there is someone who can read foam as they do tea leaves. Of course there is always someone who will take your money under false pretences, and I don't really know about the tea leaves, either.
Reluctantly, having met no one else I know, I bus my dishes, and head home with only the narrator chatting away, and my eyes pointing out every stray leaf, and patch of blue sky as a possible photograph.
No friends have called with invitations, and He is sailing, sailing away again, as if he might never return.
In lieu of going out in the car, I decide to breakfast at the Regency. I can walk there in no time at all, and perhaps I might meet one of the neighbors to talk with.
When I get there, Chris, the owner/baker is relaxing outside. I get a nice smile, his curly almond colored hair peeking out of his perpetual baseball cap, his eyes, bright in recognition of a semi-regular customer. Generally, I only go once a week, it being expensive to eat out every morning, and I have a date with my neighbor Mari on the next street. She is busy as a rule, and this is our one time together, though she admits to popping in several extra times a week for her daily au lait.
Having exchanged pleasantries with Chris, I go and order my treat for the day, orange plum scone and accidentally latte instead of au lait, with a bit of caramel syrup.
"I'll be outside" I inform the new girl at the register. In fact, everyone is new, and not knowing the facts of their disposition; school, fired, just left, I have to suspect a new regime with none of the colorful regulars to inspire mutiny among the ranks.
I retire with my scone to a black mesh table under the basically unnecessary awning, as it is on the shady side of the street, and pick up my book; interesting enough and well written, but the narrator is back, and I find nearly everything around me diverting and interesting. My internal companion, speaking in my head, will not stop talking, pointing out the interesting and mundane in no specific order.
Chris himself brings my drink, which is when I can tell, by the inscribed feather in the foam, that I have ordered the latte, with espresso, instead of the au lait, with regular coffee. Some days the latte is kind of bitter, but today, with the inclusion of a heavy dose of caramel, is maybe a bit too sweet, but the dark gritty flavor comes through making it totally indulgent.
As I read, I try to measure out the scone to last until I have finished my beverage, but that's just not going to happen. The two flavors, melded with the butter and flour make a soft crumbly pastry, and it is gone though thoroughly savored, before I have finished drinking.
I love it when I get the feather in my drink, and earlier, months before, I thought I was getting special treatment, a little picture just for me. It is a bad habit my sister chides me for, ascribing specialness to myself. In point of fact, I do not actually think it a bad habit, and also believe myself to be an outsider as I am treated as such by the general public.
With every sip, I expect the feather to disappear, and yet, it remains, long after I am convinced it should. The foam on the coffee is very fine and thick, and I can not drink it separately, but combined with the espresso below. Towards the bottom of the cup, the feather, barely changed, the sweetness becomes cloying, but I must finish to find out the end of my quest. Will it remain in the cup, sitting on the bottom, or will it be quaffed three quarters of the way down?
As it happens, the image does not dispel until the last sip, leaving the slightest tracing of white in a coating that looks like the fur on an elk's antlers, velvety and uncompromised. I wonder if there is someone who can read foam as they do tea leaves. Of course there is always someone who will take your money under false pretences, and I don't really know about the tea leaves, either.
Reluctantly, having met no one else I know, I bus my dishes, and head home with only the narrator chatting away, and my eyes pointing out every stray leaf, and patch of blue sky as a possible photograph.
I don't see anything wrong with ascribing specialness to yourself. After all...it's your adventure.
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