Like Little Diamonds Floating Down by
The sun shines
down sending brilliant rays of light through my glass of iced coffee. The light
makes the bits of raw sugar floating in the glass shine like diamonds in the
sun. The sugar sinks to the bottom of my glass, it is raw, hard, and does not
dissolve. It forms a little molasses colored pool along the bottom. The coffee
is lightened by added milk, changing the color from almost black to a caramel brown.
The cup is cold to the touch, beads of condensation drip down the side in
little rivers. The ice clacks as I tip the cup to drink. Milk bubbles create
white foam on the surface of the caramel liquid; the sugar is slightly crunchy
and sweet.
I set the
coffee cup down onto the faded black wooden table in front of me. There are a
couple moisture rings marring the table top. My knee brushes the side of the
table as I turn on the couch towards the sound of coffee beans being freshly
ground. The smell of coffee fills the air in the shop like a bittersweet cloud
drifting across the sky. Bob Marley pounds out of the speakers along the wall. The
barista is a friendly, pretty woman with blonde hair, and an anarchy symbol
tattoo on her upper arm. I’ve been to the shop enough to know that her name is
Connie. She smiles at the only customer, a snooty looking older woman that
seems to not like anarchy symbol tattoos or the people that would have them.
There are various baked goods on the counter, cookies that look like they taste
fantastic and have a fantastic amount of calories to go with them, and cake
slices with various frostings on top adorn the counter. A clear plastic rectangular
tip-box with the word COFFEE NOW and several exclamation points sits on one of
the packs of cookies, squishing them. It contains mostly crisp dollar bills and
for some reason a piece of notebook paper with Mark and half of something that
could be a phone number on it. There are various flavors of syrups used in coffee
along the back wall. Each flavor is in a clear glass bottle topped with a white
plastic pump. Facing the cash register is a counter with an assortment of cold
drinks in electric mixing containers. Their contents swirl slowly, colored
mostly egg white or chocolate brown. A big orange and black menu board hangs over
the ordering area; it lists all the various drinks served. Hot drinks, cold
drinks, and frozen drinks, mostly coffee, that are colored to go with whatever
the current holiday season is. A pre-prepared food cooler is under the sign
with croissant sandwiches of ham and turkey with tomatoes and wilted looking
lettuce. They look like oversized hockey
pucks that are soaked in water then packed in plastic bags with plain black and
white labels. A reach-in refrigerated box is in front of the cooler, it holds
cold-canned fruit drinks with pictures of laughing adults and kids, clear cold
water bottles with bright, attractive labels that shout the words vitamins and
electrolytes at anyone that reads them. The corner furthest from the order area
has a bulletin board attached to the wall with flyers announcing various events
in the community pinned to it. There are double doors a few big steps away from
the board. The large white and black lettered logo “Beans and Brews” has been
etched into the top of the double-swinging glass doors. A few teenage kids with
backpacks walk through the doors as if tired from a hard day at school and want
a little caffeine to perk them up.
Most of the
teens look at the menu, then walk to the counter and give the barista their
order. Some of the kids laugh as they talk, some are on cell phones. Connie
seems to like the teens, as she does most people. Almost every hour of the day,
people with books or laptops sit around tables or couches that are placed
against the big picture windows. Some people, order in hand, stop at the
sweetener kiosk to add various packets of sugar. One uses raw sugar like the
kind that sinks to the bottom of my cup. The kiosk also has ice water and cream.
I notice sweetener has been spilled onto the top of the kiosk like snow spreading
across the road in winter. I walk to the kiosk, take a napkin from the top of
the pile. I brush the drift of sweetener into the nearby garbage can, then toss
the napkin in. I walk out of the door into the hot summer heat and drive away.
