Mooreover / Blog

The coffee shop that I like is between a Subway restaurant (hardly seems fair to call any Subway a restaurant) and a Blockbuster. That is to say that there is always a steady stream of people making their way from one storefront to their car, often on their cell phone, not content enough to take a few strides with their own thoughts.

The coffeeshop is much busier in the evening. This establishment also makes its own ice cream, and as a regular patron, I have to think that they make as much or more on the ice cream than they do on the coffee. Mornings here are actually pretty quiet – save a dedicated few that all know the baristas name, and the barista knows their drink.

I’m a little worried that I’m losing my “young at heart” status. A few of the people that are here seem so carefree. To be fair, they are all women, and all without kids – so measuring myself against young women probably isn’t fair. Still – even spontaneous events (like ducking into a coffee shop for an hour) need to be scheduled, or ratified by the house.

I can see the…umm…butt cleavage of one of the carefree patrons. Like the other form of cleavage, I have a hard time believing its display isn’t intentional. Apparently low-riding jeans weren’t meant to be sat in. I think that “Half-Mast” would be a good brand name for jeans of this sort: made for the commando in all of us.

A little girl with red curly hair (and Selah’s age) just walked in with her sister and her dad, and on her tip-toes she can just make out the jetstreams of chocolate ice cream within a stainless canister.

Johnny Cash just walked in as well – a young business man in black shoes, black socks, black slacks, black belt and black shirt. I can hear him speak now, and apparently Johnny Cash is a Russian. A happy Russian. He’s describing where he lives in Everett, which (if he’s describing it correctly) really isn’t in Everett at all. Someone did drugs at his work today, which reminds me to leave the coffee shop before Johnny Cash gets on the road.