I met up with a former colleague last week to go for a walk and sip iced coffee. We'd agreed to read a book together and discuss it. She chose Kevin Wilson's terribly funny novel, "Nothing to See Here."
I arrived early and the coffee shop was empty except for a customer, a slender guy in sweats, and two baristas. I stood on the marked X and waited to order. The guy got his coffee and lingered to chat with one of the baristas.
Dude, c'mon, I thought. I get it, you're a regular, you're that guy. Now go.
"You know, this pandemic hasn't been all bad," he said.
(Insert Marge Simpson groan.)
He glanced at me.
Panic. Did I groan aloud? I don't think so.
"I mean, you get to work from home and go to the coffee shop wearing whatever you want! Look at me!" He gestured at his sweats and flip flops.
Thankful for my mask, concealing my undoubtedly sour expression, I hesitated.
"Oh, not you," he said hastily. "You look great. But me. I'm so relaxed!"
More silence. I didn't feel like helping him undig the hole he was so efficiently constructing for himself. Finally, I gave him a thumb's up.
He picked up his drink and went out the open door. "Have a good one!"
The barista making my drink slid my iced Americano across the counter. She watched out the windows as the guy walked down the sidewalk. "I like that guy, he's a regular, but dude--read the room."
"I'm glad this has been such a positive experience for him," I said sarcastically.
She nodded. "I've had to be here working every fucking day. In clothes. So, yeah."
"Thank you for being here," I said. It felt inadequate. I'd tipped well, but it didn't seem like enough.
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