It’s Tuesday
Coffee smells landed. I breathed it in.
The barista greeted me from the counter, “Hey, Michael.”
“Hi, Natalie.” I slid my payment over as she wrote up my order.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
An espresso machine hissed. I shrugged. “It’s Tuesday, isn’t it.”
She nodded. Natalie loves shouting with a big, lovely grin, “It’s Tuesday, innit?”
Today, she said, “Just two days in and it’s already a burden.”
I smiled. “Too true.”
Natalie began entering the order into the register.
“You have my Co-op number?” I asked.
Her emerald eyes widened. “Five nine nine six?”
Classic rock spilled out of the speakers.
“Bingo,” I shouted.
Natalie and I laughed like maniacs.
“It’s Tuesday, innit?” I asked.
Natalie bent over in laughter. “It’s Tuesday, innit?”
Ethology
Ethology
Ring
Ping
ChimeHeads turn
Conversations slowFeeding
CommencesDigestion
FinishesAgendas
ResumeWhere were we?
Hi Yourself
Stepping into the coffee shop, I immediately scan for a table and chair to sit and write.
It’s late morning and busy. Aha, though — two tables are there for —
“Hey, Michael.”
I’m being accosted from across the room. The speaker is a barista. Having shouted out my name, they’ve busy multi-tasking.
Spotting Kat first, I begin, “Hey, Ka — “
I see Natalie.
I don’t know which called out.
So I finish, “Talie.”
Chuckling to myself about this, I dumped my gear at a table and head to the counter. Kat is manning the register and Natalie is busy preparing my coffee. I hear Natalie say, “Curling,” before she turns away.
Kat asks, “Let me ask you, Michael. Are you watching the Olympics?”
“Only the curling,” I reply.
Natalie roars with laughter as Kat’s mouth drops open.
“No way,” Kat finally says.
“Yes, way,” I answer. “By the way. When I came in, I heard one of you say hello to me. I didn’t know who it was, so I called you Katalie.”
The two bend over with laughter. “We ARE Katalie,” Kat shouts. Whipping toward each other, she and Natalie exchange high fives.
I pay and take my coffee. The writing day has an auspicious beginning.
Mundaz Wandering Thoughts
I was in the coffee shop — typing, revising, thinking, scrambling through the novel, noticing faults and fixing them. Progress was steady but heavy with challenge.
.Another customer approached my table. Regulars, she and I briefly spoke together a few times. Today she said, “Excuse me, but I love watching you at your table.”
Blinking, I gave her my attention.
She continued, “You become so deeply focused and oblivious to the rest of us, it just amazes me. I’m sorry to interrupt you but I really felt an itch to say something.”
I thanked her with a laugh. “Don’t worry. Interruptions can be helpful. Sometimes a little break is needed to help me think more clearly.”
We exchanged names, then she left the coffee shop, leaving me smiling.
Sometimes it feels good to be noticed as orders are called out, conversations rise and fall, and people come and go.
It feels…human.
Another Wandering Thought
Drinking and writing in the coffee shop, I briefly emerged from my fog of words. Conversational strands pulled me in.
“We’re losing ’em all,” a customer said to the barista, Preston.
“Yes,” Preston agreed.
“There’s only one Beatle left, isn’t there?”
I flipped the Beatles’ names through my mind: Paul, John, George, Ringo.
“Yep. No, two,” Preston said.
“Yeah, that’s right, Ringo and George.”
Preston answered, “No, George and John.”
“That’s right,” the customer agreed, walking off.
Eyebrows rising, I bit my tongue, resisting the urge to call out a correction.
“No, wait,” Preston shouted. “John and Paul. No, Ringo and John. I mean. Paul! Ringo and Pau!”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Thank dog they came through with the right names.
I don’t know what I would have done if they hadn’t.
The Writing Moment
Standing and stretching from my coffee-shop table, I said, “Hi, Kim.”
Hair red as a cardinal catching attention, Kim grinned. My coffee-house writing friend. Three novels out there and counting.
“Hey, Michael. You leaving?”
“Yes, the table is yours if you want. It served me well.”
We laughed. I was giving up the corner table, the best for writing, offering comfort, privacy, and stability. Certain tables rock when typing. Precious as we are, the rocking disrupts needed writing rhythm.
Kim went on, pointing over her shoulder, “I was over there but that table is just too low. It makes my back and neck hurt.”
A grin overtook my face. She was as particular as me. “I know! It really makes it hard when you’re hunkering down for a two to three hours.”
Packing up my gear, I vacated the space. She swept in. “Happy writing,” I offered, then went on with a smile.
It was a good writing day for me. Hope it’s a good one for her, too — though, with that table and her talents, it’s bound to be.
Michael Seidel, writer 