The Daily Grind

Grind. Dose. Tamp. Pull. Steam. Pour.

I've been there for two hours already when the door opens. She's always there, a little old tanned lady, and she always orders the same thing. Single small latte, in a paper cup so she can go outside and smoke. She always asks how I've been, and I reply "I'm alive," and she'll laugh, even though we've had this conversation nearly every day for ten months. A few minutes later her friend shows up, a round middle aged woman with glasses and short fingers.

Grind. Dose. Tamp. Pull. Steam. Pour.

This morning was different. She doesn't show. The first hour, I think maybe she slept in. The second, I wonder if she's visiting family. Her daughter lives in Connecticut.

Other regulars are streaming in, each common face I know so well. High nasal voice, gay middle-aged and crippled, Fritz walks in. I've told Fritz my name at least two dozen times, but he still calls me "guy." He looks around, asks me where she is. Fritz doesn't have any money, and he relies on Natalie, that's her name, to buy him coffee.

Natalie didn't show that morning. Nor the next. Three days later her friend shows up with an open invitation.

We bring coffee to the funeral. We buy Fritz his first coffee of the morning for the next few days.

Grind, dose, tamp, pull, steam, and pour. And that ends up changing in a little way, and there's a little hole in the morning. But I grind, I dose, I tamp, I pull, I steam, and I pour. A single latte, and I pour it out.