Coffee Confessions

My dream of opening a coffee shop was fulfilled a few years ago when I overheard the previous owner talking about selling out. I count my blessings as I was in the right place at the right time that day. One can learn a lot about the neighborhood by owning a coffee shop. I see and hear everything. It’s amazing how most people think they are inside of a private conversations as I am hiding in plain view, absorbing it all.  It’s a scary reality to hear what people are actually saying when they think nobody else is listening. They are an open book. I feel that most people don’t even realize how much they are revealing about themselves as they talk. They definitely don’t realize the level of betrayal they are passing on to their so-called friends. This time last year, I was not shocked by the news of Mayor Kilmor’s election fraud and arrest that came later. I had been hearing about it for months. Slimy jerk. Or Katherine, the owner of the only flower shop in town. She prides herself in the beautiful creative displays of color and specialty flowers. Meanwhile she secretly runs a drug ring in the basement that has overtaken and damaged a handful of our teens in town.  Her daily meetings in the corner booth that frequent several “coffee companions”, one right after another, are only there for their hook up. It is therapeutic for me fill myself up with this kind of knowledge. The security it brings me soothes me.

With the arrival of cooler temps and the color changes of the leaves, one of my favorite things to do is come up with new clever autumn drink ideas that will attract people from every corner of this county. I watch as the people walk in carrying their excitement on their sleeves, showing off their new boots or fancy scarves and recently blown out manes. It brings me pleasure that they find my establishment sacred enough to bring me their darkest secrets. With each new secret I stow away, the more I’m stitched into people’s fibers. They don’t even know it yet, but I am becoming the most important person in their little existence. They couldn’t get rid of me if they tried. I’m too tangled. The only way out will be complete destruction. At this point, it’s just easier to keep sipping their coffee and never mind who is listening. 

With the morning sun pouring through the store front windows, I revel in its beams as I prepare my coffee shop for its transition into the fall menu. With a clean blackboard, I pick up my chalk and start my drawings. I bought multiple colors so I can make it festive and fun. There’s nothing cozier and more inviting than a blackboard mural covered with pumpkins, hay bales, and coffee mugs. I write out my new menu and think of all the variations of coffee drinks that I can create. I like to pick out the names first, then decide what the ingredients will be. It’s totally judging a book by its cover. If you think people don’t actually do that, you’re dead wrong. I start with my first drink. “Moonlight Mocha”. It’ll be a dark roast, imported cocoa, and organic heavy cream that will be garnished with vanilla bean. The spicy hint of clove and nutmeg tops off this beautiful drink. I already start to picture a bleached blonde, middle aged woman sporting her favorite shade of bright red lipstick walking up in her Michael Kors boots, just waiting to roll her order off the tip of her tongue. Oh wait, what’s this? She stops and looks up at my newly drawn out menu board. The new fall drinks are out? I’m trying moonlight mocha. The anticipation is heavy on her face because she’s about to purge out her deepest confession to her equally annoying friend.  I could pour her mud and she probably wouldn’t notice or care. She doesn’t deserve my perfected creation.

My next drink will be called “Black Coffin”. This will be a dark roast French press served in a burgundy cup decorated with yellow mums. The dark smoky aroma soothes even the hardest of hearts. It’s the big bright wake up that most people are looking for each morning. Clearly this will be what the busy corporates will order and run out the door with. They never stay long enough for me to hear anything of substance. Sometimes the ladies who are on a “low sugar” kick for the week will order that.  Those conversations are fun.  I roll my eyes.  I hear how frustrated these women are and realize which homes are about to unravel and which homes have already been unraveling for months. Some of these folks are mere stitches away from a complete naked reveal. 

My final drink will be the “Cinnamon Casket”. This medium roast heavily soaked in cinnamon will be served in a tiny teacup with a beautiful foam pumpkin lightly displayed on top. The sprinkle of crushed cashews on top finishes it off beautifully. For fun, I frequently offer a “buy one, get one free” on this sweet treat. People stay longer and I am rewarded with more of the story. 

Recently, I brought in a notebook and started writing down the details that tickle my ear. It’s too good not to make note of for later usage. I feel it’s my obligation to store and preserve these stories somewhere safe. I am the best person for this job. These people should thank me. I’m providing them exceptional coffee, comfortable seating, and a safe haven to relinquish their guilty secrets. It’s like a marvelous therapy session. I am their therapist. I should raise my prices.   

I finish the board and step back to take a final look. I wipe my hands on a towel, toss is across my shoulder, and put my hands on my hips. I am a genius. They will love this. I pick up my chalk and wipe off the counters. I light the warm candles and flip the “Open” sign over. Today is a new day. I welcome its beauty and all it will bring me. I can’t help this overwhelming feeling of joy and fulfillment wash over me. I smile because I am blessed.