Starbucks

Slurpity Slurp

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The smack-slurp is loud, easily audible above the roar of baristas who banter in partial truths. Yeah, I come here too much. It’s a problem. 

I don’t even realize what is happening until her finger is aggressively curving the arc of her paper cup. She is shamelessly scraping out syrup and sucking it off her finger. I glance around in shyness, under the radar. As if I’m whispering to a best friend I wonder, Am I the only one seeing this?

Back in she goes, another swipe, another lick, and I’m doing everything I can to force my eyes into submission in my own space.
She cares not as she snaps the lid in place and goes back to her social media scrolling.

That’s when I look at my cup. I mean, I could. She did. No one really saw, though we all know it wouldn’t have mattered.

I rise up, my shoulders are bold. “Could I have a venti water?”

I’ll save it for a day I choose the drive-thru.

 

What Do I Say?

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Weaving my way around this drive-thru Starbucks is like a game of Pac Man. I’m inside lugging 15 pounds of notes and books, a computer and one small power cord to my phone that does not make or break the weight, but can be the deciding factor of whether I will still get emergency calls from the school about forgotten lunches. So I keep it.

I see moms pulling out all manner of Crayons and Hello Kitty coloring pages. There are meetings between Metros and women who are avoiding the highway in this mess of snow. Which is quite pretty from my view over a steaming mocha.

“Would you mind if I share this table with you?” I ask her.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m leaving soon anyway.”

Lovely. There are reasonable people in this society.

Her hair is chopped with texture that doesn’t happen right out of bed. She highlights her makeup around the dark lipstick she’s chosen to accent her emerald dress. Her knee-high, black, healed boots are professional, with sass. And she has the personal skills of a great salesman. Someone who works with people, likes people, makes people her business.

I’m guessing, of course.

“The snow is much prettier from here,” I say.
She doesn’t hesitate. “I know. The highway is still closed.”
“Oh, it is?” I wouldn’t know. I only see it when I’m finding a Costco. And I don’t watch the news because all I need in the morning besides strong coffee, enough Pop-Tarts to split three ways, and a drop-off lane, is the school cancellation number.
“My husband was here but he thought he’d give it a try. He’s still sitting.”
Yeah, I’m with you. I’d rather be stuck in a coffee Taj Mahal too.

She didn’t ask what I’m doing here. I didn’t offer. What do I say?
Well, I’m writing a book. (I know. Who isn’t? Yes, I do realize the statistics.) My second try. The story, the idea, gives me chills. I believe in it and some say I’m great with words. I have almost 4,000 of them but they could all be bad. I’ll probably get lots of rejection letters but you know what? I’m doing it anyway. Because if I could write my own headstone whenever the time comes that I need one, it would say: She Held Nothing Back.