Everyone else gets asked what they want. I always take what I’m given.
It’s a ritual we’ve followed since day one. I came in full of that coffeeshop rush, enticed by the familiar but exotic aroma, joined the queue and waited my turn. I’d decided on a black Americano, my go-to in a new place.
But when I got to the counter there was no asking what I wanted. You handed me a cup, said
‘I think you’re going to like this’ and moved on to the guy behind me.
There was barely a chance for me to mumble
‘Thank you’
Maybe I should have challenged what you’d done. Instead, I just found a seat and took a sip. It was sharp and a little bitter, quite unlike my normal choice. But knowing you were watching, not drinking it wasn’t an option. I didn’t leave until I was sure you’d seen me finish.
Now for thirty minutes every morning, I’m in your control. Too sweet, too cold, too hot. The decision is always yours, sometimes grande, other times espresso.
If I’m hungry I’ll know there’ll be no croissants. On the days I don’t want one they’re piled high.
One day I tried to talk with you and was rewarded with decaf. I quickly learned my lesson.
Now I wait to be told I’m going to like it and always remember to say
‘Thank you’
David in the kitchen. 