My Coffee Shop - A Short Story

I’ve always wanted to own a coffee shop. I love everything about coffee. How it makes me feel in the morning - primarily human.

Anticipation.

Routine.

Caffeine.

Coffee waits for me to arrive. It greets me and helps me set right my mind and body and soul…and all that is frazzled gets a hit of the brown elixir and all. is. well. in the world.

Well, maybe not all well, but all things become much more manageable after coffee and I get together. Oh, the clever schemes we come up after 2 or 3 cups. Once I hit 4, better hide the Mastercard.

Magic.

I do love the smell of coffee. The beans spilling out from under the grinder as I wrestle the basket out and clumsily pour the freshly ground dark brown pebbles into the filter.

Yes I use a filter. Sometimes a french press.

I don’t have a fancy coffee machine. I do unashamedly covet one though. When my darling friend tells me stories of her husband bringing her a steaming latte in her favorite Disney mug on a cool Saturday morning… I tear up a little.

Every few months I troll the internet for a fancy machine, with frothers and dampers and double spouts, burr grinders built-in. I click on the ones I can most intelligently justify their purchase and if it just so happens to show up on my door one day…

Ding-Dong…

Mrs. Sasaki, please sign here this receive this box from Italy that will change your life. Arrivederci!

Our first born lives at home [still] [bless him Jesus] and when he and I are both home in the mornings, at least 2 pots are brewed and consumed. Occasionally, when I am in my office, he will call downstairs and ask if I want a refill.

He gets me.

The idea of having my own coffee shop returns to me at least once a year.

The name of my shop? It keeps changing. The location? Well that depends on whether I want it to be a social enterprise (which I do by the way) or I want it to be the coolest place in town.

Could it be both?

[and what’s a better word than cool?]

It would have diverse, local art on its crisp white walls and nights of poetry, storytelling and maybe a political or social conflict debate or two, monthly open mics and small intimate events like fundraisers and book launches. It would be safe for people to be themselves and would be family to those who are far from their own. It would smell like dark roast and cinnamon, sea salt and flaky pastries all perfectly crowded in glass display cases.

Classical music would play in the background, interspersed with blues featuring big guitars, trombones and clarinets, and the sound of deep throated jazz singers filling up the room. And during happy hour, my favorite 80’s music would light up the faces of the middle-aged customers while the young staff tried to contain their eye-rolls. We would have new music Mondays and local artist holding court, sharing their brilliance and angst every other weekend.

And it might make money but every day my deepest, most hopeful whisper would be that it would make memories.

And it would make the world a better place…a more caffeinated, less judgmental, more curious place.

And it would be mine.

And it would yours.