It’s one of those ones tucked on the corner of the avenue. With plate glass windows that are 10 feet long so you can see the legs of all the people inside as they watch the steps of the pedestrians outside. The music is on and its the best of the 80’s. It whines on like a wife at a husband who isn’t listening. Incessantly and too loud. The four chairs by the window at the far end are empty. The leftmost one is turned to the right, like a nosy customer listening to the couple beside him. The rightmost one is straight and aligned, and by a wall outlet so its usual patron can plug in and return to his own dimension, oblivious to all and anyone around him. Now the two in the middle, those chairs would have to be a couple for sure. They are turned in to one another and far too close to be sipping separate coffees. One is slightly beside the other like he had something to whisper in her ear and she would probably recross her legs after she giggles at his repeated joke. Maybe they nuzzle noses too. The place is mostly counters. There is a table, but it is set up as a three since it’s too wide and round for any dueces looking for an intimate conversation. The chairbacks are wood but too little to go with this wide pedestal. They look like little children misplaced, or teens trying to hard not to have the softness of 18 years old still in their faces. Then the people come. The counter girls call out shots as red eyes and make all the drinks sound a bit more intense and of course trendy then the patron who is requesting it. First are some heavy set women in cutoffs. Sleeveless shirts and long hair with too many layers. They have painted toes nails that look very dainty and rhinestones on their sandals. Two Y straps like tennis bracelets biting their feet. The four of them like they are wearing uniforms and are on lunch before global history next period. Another woman walks in. She could be a giraffe all thin and spindly with espadrilles that are flat and wound with laces up her lower calf. Her hair is stringy climbs down her back. She keeps her sunglass on and they cover most of her face. She picks at a crumb cake with a fork. Her posture looks like a backache waiting to happen, but she is so thin and curveless it seems to give her another dimension. Another woman walks in with shorts that are cut too high and thighs trying to hide underneath her tan. She shares her cell phone conversation with the rest of the establishment. There are several people having animated conversations with their ear pieces blinking. Like the coffee date that couldn’t make it or is in a diner on the other side of town since their are too many taxis and busses between them to share a lunch hour. A mother pushes in her Bugaboo stroller and seems wholly dissatisfied with her twenty minutes of quiet while her little pile is sleeping. She sits with her coffee, the largest cup offered, like she is doing shots. Takes each sip as a dare or a commitment. Downs it and takes another hit. A man walks in and his Brooks Brothers suit wears him. He touches his cufflinks twice and tugs at his double Windsor while waiting for a large cup with lots of ice. Behind him is a burly many with tattoo and arm hair competing against his girth in a white muscle shirt. His jeans are too loose and too tight depending upon where you look. He is followed by a man whose jeans may as well be spandex and he knows he fills them nicely. Very nicely. So nicely you almost forget he is standing like a flamingo as he keeps shuffling the weight on his hip. Almost, he considers himself in the glass reflection too long and too intently. Those jeans probably cost as much as a good silk dress. Hips and abs assuredly incur a monthly gym fee. He has square toed shoes that are lambskin and not bulky. I think he envies the click clack of the girl in heels behind him. She knows her hair is the right length, just past the bra strap and with layers like wind. Not straight and wholesome and not Farah Fawcett revisited. Better than Jennifer Aniston. And all of those sit ups paid off. She shows it in the exposed midriff above her white prairie skirt. All fluff and flow with strappy heels beneath. Her eyes fight for window space to recheck her reflection beside jean man. She needs coffee too. Her handbag is one of those new large ones with studs and buckles and some leather fringes dangling that seems to allow the world to be overweight and oversized and is perfectly sensible to carry this summer. She pulls out a thin wallet and puts on sunglasses after she pays. Another woman in flat shoes and a long black shift follows. Her face is dour and her hair a severe slick. It might be in lieu of a a face lift. Lots of eye makeup and creamy looking foundation. Another girl follows her. Pink hair that has faded much the way her torn jeans have. Intentionally. Several steel pierces mark her face. Do only women depend on coffee? An old gentleman in a seersucker suit is next. It’s yellowed in a couple of places. His hair is neat and his eyes are bright. Then a another heavy woman with a long skirt, beads jangling, a roped knot of grey wiry hair. She takes her coffee with milk. Her soul seems to interrupt everyone else’s conversation until a messenger with a bike wheel and a bag jaunts past and takes the sugar first. The postal workers are outside pushing their little wheeled hand trucks of canvas bags bursting with mail. An i-Pod man comes in and had to take his earpieces out to repeat his order. He’s got one hand on his music and the other on his third generation phone which must have a very urgent email, enough so to put down the player and take both hands with a maddened frenzy to reply. He lets the Asian girl go ahead of him. She wears a smug smile, her clothes and hair are right, her job is right and she has time for coffee and sleep again. Town valedictorian. She has an ironed mane that reaches to her bum and she carelessly weaves her fingers through it. She carries a wallet, no handbag. The spindly giraffe stabs at her coffee cake. Hard. She lets her straggles cover the left side of her face. She watches her like a cat who can’t stalk a bird through a window screen. Two tourists walk in and beam with wide smiles for finding a real New York coffee shop. A real one. They have their double decker bus maps in hand and three “I heart NY” shopping bags sagging with gifts between them. They have sunglasses and large straw hats that were ten dollar street finds. A woman in Chanel walks in like a creature from a distant planet. She is a society lady and her face is lots of delicate folds of skin. Her hair is a straight bob in a color that could not be honest but is so well blended you can’t place a finger on what is unauthentic. She has heavy bangles on both wrists. Little pencil lips in red, red, red. A heavyset man again, bald and too sweaty for the hour comes in. He takes off his glasses and marks his window counter before buying a large iced tea. Now a backwards baseball cap walks in on a man who actually looks real. At least a day’s unshaven and in a regular tee shirt that is not identifiable by season or atelier. He is followed by a young girl in a sundress. Her hair is a ponytail and she hasn’t put on much makeup. They are lost in their own conversation until they order. Pause themselves for the take out. And hand in hand they leave, back in their own place again. They shared glances in the coffee shop like a couple who knows it is improper to do more than hold hands in front of your old aunt. We are all the old aunts sitting there. “Don’t you forget about me” is playing. I say, la la la di da la la la li di da da da. I’ll be alone and not dancing. Just finishing coffee that’s become cold now.