A cozy arm-chair, window seat, rain or shine,
low murmurs from ongoing conversations, “artsy” music playing in the
background, the sound of beans grinding and the smell of fresh brews,
laptop open but ignored, industrial furniture, green walls against
brick, local photography, “Number 31!”—Life frozen for a few peaceful moments as I stare out the window at those whose life continues on.
This is what I think of when I hear the word, “coffee.”
I automatically envision myself sitting at one of my favorite cafés,
Prince St. or
Folklore,
with a specially designed mocha in hand. These memories do not contain
life-altering events that plague my memory, rather they are remembered
fondly—full of solitude in the city, good music, inspiration, and a fresh cup o’ Joe.
