Second Home

second home

It's a bit after 9:30 and I'm drinking my evening mocha, fetched by Fuzzy, to help caffeinate me. Still more than 10 hours to go, and I'm fading, and not, all at once.

A picture of Starbucks might seem incongruous with the theme of home, but, this is the store in my neighborhood, where they compliment me on my clothes when I wear certain colors, and know if I've changed my hair, and what my drink is.

It's the place where I people-watch, a lot: teenagers, men in golf shirts reading the paper, women with laptops doing business over what passes for their lunch, soccer moms and church goers, all in pastels. It's a microcosm of our neighborhood, as any good cafe should be.

And hey, they serve COFFEE, too.

I'm feelin' mighty lonesome, haven't slept a wink;
I walk the floor from nine to four, in between I drink
Black coffee – love's a hand-me-down brew.
I'll never know a Sunday in this weekday room.*

*”Black Coffee,” Sarah Vaughan

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