Scenes from Starbucks

You can sit in one place, watch the world pass by. Let the music play between your ears. Help you to drift up and away to that magical place no one else can scrutinize. Cars pass beyond the glass, streaks of colors pure, so fast across your view that they blur into brilliant streaks of shapes, red and blue. But the music makes you focus to the trees just beyond the other side’s curb. They sway and dance to notes only you can hear. They twist and bounce in a lover’s embrace as the flute teases with the bass. The song changes, your eyes linger on. The sway of apple green leaves, an intoxicating swan song. Until that is when the cyclists catch your interest with spokes and petals, all hitting the beat. A rush of the wind flicks back the bandana around one’s head, sun hitting the gold rimmed glasses in perfect chime. The cymbal strikes. This song is done. A brief pause, the station changing tracks, a man walks along, tall, strong, with a wide brimmed hat. The mood changes, this song is new. I focus closer with these strings that play, I see the lovers over coffee with little to say. Her hand in his, they look into each other so deep. He leans in; she kisses him on the cheek. The orchestra quiets, the moment so dear.  But with a clash the percussion breaks, the man next to me tapping his fingers while he waits. He flips the paper and grips it tight. You can see where he’s crunched it preparing for a fight. Pepper hair he’s combed to the side. Glasses round—just a hint of silver—sit high. The timpani strikes and so does his feet. “Up and at ‘em,” he says with all his might.  And with the final taps on the tubular bells I watch the magic come to a close, when I realize I’ve written some wonderful prose.