On sitting in a coffee shop

The sounds of chatter and prattle encircle the room. Each a story; telling a story, thinking a story, denying a story. They carry aromas which sift over everyone's head, floating and dancing like the aurora borealis. Dark and light roasts melding into one fragrance. To each her own blend of bitter and sweet to make up the taste in her mouth; the cup in her hands; the movements of her lips and tongue and heart beat.

As they sip simultaneously, she talks to him, she has curled up on the chair, a book in her hands; she hums to the melody in her head; she just sips and stares at the imaginary orchestra above her. Each she's united in taste, understanding each other so much and so little. She wants to graduate; she wants to make them proud; she wants to be loved; she wants to disassociate.

To capture this moment in coffee cups and travel mugs is to embrace their spirits. They come in and leave; ordering for take-out or staring for hours. Each remain in the rafters, until one day the roof with be torn off and the aromas will lift into the air; they will fly away.

And she walks out to be roasted, labeled as house or decaf or french or espresso. Instead of blending, dancing, singing, they will lose their aromas to the frangrance-less void of the outside world.