Java in the Afternoon

      Franz Ferdinand is playing on the speakers overhead as I sit at this corner table, as far from the other patrons as one can possibly get. Coffee teeters dangerously on the edge of a coffee mug with the screaming face of the Peanuts cartoon character Lucy on the front. Not exactly soothing, but I'll take it. The table I sit at is wooden and stained; scratched and covered with coffee ring crossing over coffee ring, like a million penn diagrams spreading across the wood. A lamp stands stalwartly, the red shade glowing softly from the bulb it hides, the pattern of moons lit like the nighttime stars. There is a painting on the wall of a lone tree standing in the black of an oncoming storm. It is surrounded for miles by the bland, hot pale yellow of wheat. In the corner, opposite me, a boy sits alone, wearing plaid, concentrating like his life depends on it as he plays chess with no opponent. This place is familiar to me, filled with familiar faces, friendly faces, faces I have spoken with, faces I have embraced, faces I have even come to love. There are couches and tables with a mishmash of chairs; the coffee shop is a labyrinth. I once commiserated over the difficulty of navigation in here with a blind girl and felt like a jerk afterwords for ever complaining about trying to get anywhere. She laughed as she talked to me about the maze of furniture she had to wade through with only her walking stick as a guide. I smiled in response before realizing that she couldn't see me.
      On a shelf there is a glass jar; more than a glass jar, it is a glass vase, maybe a sculpture. It undulates and curves in and out like a voluptuous woman. It is filled nearly to the top with coffee beans. This is a place where things brim. Coffee brims, those beans brim, conversations brim, perhaps love brims.
     An old familiar song comes on and we sing along; me and the girl sitting across from me, both here under the pretense of doing homework but instead we are singing along, because sometimes those songs come on, where you just need to sing too, and you know everyone's staring and judging in their heads, but in that moment it doesn't really matter.
       All around, conversations ensue. Some people lean very close to the person across the table, their conversations automatically appearing far more intimate and intense than the rest of ours because of their body language. Perhaps they are lovers; perhaps they are merely close friends. Perhaps they have only recently met and their body language is indicative of that moment in a new meeting when you realize you have that connection with someone, that connection that signifies you are going to be friends for a very long time.
       The last thing I note are the paper hearts hanging from the ceiling tiles, strategically placed all around the room as a warning, a reminder, the day of St. Valentine is fast approaching. Normally I would feel rather annoyed with this showy decoration that feels pushy and just a little too soon. But the playlist is good and the coffee is flowing and the wood of the table feels smooth yet rugged beneath my palms and today, I look up at the hearts and I find that I don't mind them. I don't mind them at all.