You pull open the heavy door. Hear the jingle of the bell announcing your presence.
It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. You can make out tables and chairs; a couple sofas. You take a couple of steps into the room and feel the heat flood over your frozen body. The wind is icy outside! What a relief to have a warm place to relax.
There's a blonde boy/man with a mustache working the register and making the coffee. Just another Saturday. Nothing to write home about. He looks up, smiles, keeps your eye contact for a moment. But not too long, otherwise it would be socially awkward. He goes back to making the coffee for the frumpy lady in front of you in line. She turns, looks you up and down and you can tell she's labeling you in her mind. Eh, no big deal. It's Saturday. And you decided that it was going to be a good day. She can't ruin your day. Nobody can. They can only ruin your day if you let them.
The frumpy lady goes on her way with her double shot mocha frappe deluxe with fat free milk half caffeinated chai americano latte.
The blonde boy/man makes eye contact, smiles, and asks, "What can I get for you today, miss?" You crinkle your nose and think. Decisions, decisions. Maybe a mocha, or a hot chocolate! Anything hot sounds wonderful. No. You take that back. Today is most definitely a chai latte day. Here's to hoping the blonde boy/man doesn't make a crappy one. Even a crappy chai wouldn't ruin your day!
You pay the blonde boy/man, make chit chat, you can tell he thinks you're pretty. Then he gives you your drink, apologizes for the nonexistent wait and waits for you to look away.
Now comes the hard part, choosing your seat. This takes much thought. You don't want to sit too near the door or you will be blasted with cold air every time a customer enters. You can't sit too near the register so that the blonde boy/man doesn't think you are suggesting further conversation. You don't want to sit at a large conference table, you'll feel all alone. But the sofas and lounge chairs are suggestive that you want someone to sit and converse with you. You decide upon a small table, three chairs, with room for your computer and a book. Then you unpack. You scope out the rest of the room; one old Indian man reading a paper. That's it. Light Christmas music is playing in the background. Perfect.
You pull out Mary Poppins. P.L. Travers was such a great guy. The story comes alive in the depths of your imagination. You can see Julie Andrews flying down the street, the constable giving you a tour of Cherry Tree Lane, Jane and Michael in their dirty nursery, and Bert drawing chalk wonders on the side walk.
This is a good Saturday.