Grande, Five Pump, No Water, Chai Tea Latte

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She wears black tights and a decent black skirt. Her shoes are heels, clicking angrily across the coffee shop floor. A jacket conceals the rest of her dress and mirrors the sound of her feet. She orders a grande soy americano misto.

His hair is carefully gelled into a particular mess. His earring studs display his casual acceptance of adventure. His t-shirt is oversized and hides the fact that his jeans are worn well below his waist. His belt, a gaudy shining thing, has only aesthetic purpose. He grabs a venti chocolate chip frappe.

Her purse announces confidently that she knows Prada personally. Her makeup declares the claim dubious. All her clothes are new, but none of them fit. Her smile is worn like everything else – an expensive cover-up. She purchases a tall skinny vanilla latte.

He wears a long trench coat to conceal the pot-belly of his age. A tie and today’s newspaper are in place to distract attention from his form to his profession. He wears his heart on his sleeve when the barista smiles at him. She reminds him of his daughter. He pays for a grande americano.

He has a dirty backpack over his shoulder and his bike helmet in his hand. All of his clothes were made in Canada. 10% of the cost of his brown hoody went to help re-plant trees. His hiking boots were expensive – a brand name made famous for withstanding time in the wilderness. He drinks bold coffee in his own eco-friendly cup.

She is wearing the required standard white on top, black on bottom, with black shoes. The green apron is freshly untied and adorned the hook for 14 more minutes. She’ll have a grande earl grey tea latte.

The whole world an alphabet in disjointed sequence.

Some of them will not be back. The in and out of a busy store. Whole stories noticed but not missed. Just customer counts. Just happenstance. Just like that.

Others return to fill the pages of chapter headings labelled “Regulars”. Their coffee cups are their community. What day at the office would start without a prior visit to their second family? A bad one. Here they are someone. A caramel macchiato with an early morning job. A water guy.

Some of them still have to complete their shift. They’ll be back in 8 minutes, but they won’t be here for long. They’re putting in their time. Their sass and smile is convincing, and they get the job done, but this $10 an hour crap isn’t for them. A necessary rung on the ladder to their dreams.

Stories mixed carefully with every drink. A lonely heart. A cop just off duty. A business partnership. A sales pitch. A moment’s rest before a social marathon. A new employee orientation. A thousand monkeys on a thousand typewriters striving to make something beautiful.

How can I drink all the letters in my coffee cup? Surely Shakespearean sonnets must linger on my lips. Newtonian notions need notoriously slosh in my stomach. Certainly with enough trial and error something wholesome will start to brew.

Perhaps I shall be an artist. With a thousand whimsies and a heart of tortured depth, I’ll look to the world and live in bohemia. I shall mould my friendships into sculptures. Make my mentors into paintings. I shall walk with a sure step but a careless stride. I’ll seek to understand fine wines, but I’ll sip a white chocolate mocha.

Perhaps I shall be a villain. I shall contort and construe reality to fit my own fiendish design. With charismatic ease, I shall appeal to the child inside those with power and ensure my future. Those who have wronged me will in turn know suffering double fold. Those who have supported me will be betrayed without thought as it comes to suit. My conscience will remain unharmed, for it is egocentric. I’ll take a discount with my espresso.

Perhaps I shall be an instrument of faith. I’ll see the world as a series of supernatural intents with a spiritual connection. Suffering, mistakes, triumphs, and joys would all have their rightful place in Purpose. I could give up entirely, and let the universe carry me over rapids and down waterfalls, knowing I would wash up on the shores of my rightful Eden. I could trust that nothing was wasted, and preach that nothing was in vain. Unbeknownst to me, I was led through mochas and espressos only so I could truly appreciate the cappuccino.

I’m just a monkey. Start another drink.

The quick brown fox jumps over a lazy dog.