The Café

   

    The café I love but never enter is on my way to work, nestled into a little corner on the alley near the park. The front of the shop is plain with only a long planter filled with African violets on the ground under the window. There isn't even a sign above the door. Despite its unassuming nature, I always feel drawn to peak inside— the pine floors and shelving, dim lights, and handwritten menu create a homey atmosphere, a world away from the hustle of the city.

    Peering in the window, my eyes are drawn to the barista as he makes the next pour over or espresso. Even though he is focused on the drink at hand, he never forgets to smile kindly to the customer waiting on the other side of the small coffee bar. There are two tables with two chairs and closest to the window is a worn, plush chair, not a day passes without there a person sipping on a coffee while reading a book in that oversized chair. The quaintness is so inviting, so calming.

    As I walk by the door, the smell of freshly brewed coffee always greets me, filling my lungs with warmth. It's not uncommon to hear voices singing from a hidden speaker, a mix of SsingSsing and Leenalchi mingled with Fettes Brot and Billie Holiday. One day I will go in and spend hours rooted in reality and zen.