October 26 - What goes without saying

I had ordered my usual Americano, asking for it black because I secretly brought along a vial of my own milk – I hated places that thought they could approximate exactly how much of the substance a customer would want, splashed liberally in the bottom of your paper cup – a vial that I extracted once I was seated, surreptitiously poured in a dollop, then replaced in my purse. It was difficult to pretend to read the headlines of the newspaper today; nothing seemed able to hold my attention. I was embarrassed, because today was the first day my server acknowledged what a creature of habit I was.

“The usual?” the guy behind the counter asked when I walked into the coffee shop, before I even opened my mouth. I recognized him, too, of course, since he was there three out of four days that I wandered in, with his oversized glasses and his short-cropped hair and a slim, artistic, slightly fée build. Guilty as charged, I thought with a grimace. I had become so predictable it was unnecessary to voice it.

I nodded mutely.

The espresso machine made a pleasant hum as my shot of espresso was prepared, then he poured hot water on top, and placed the double-cupped beverage on the counter. “Careful,” he warned, as always, “it’s scalding hot.”

“Thanks,” I said, leaving two extra quarters in the tip jar to back up my words, but I slinked quickly away from the counter.

So now I felt agitated as I sat at my usual table – the second from the left – in my usual coffee shop. I liked this place because it had a European air about it, white plastered walls with wooden lattice, and bottles of wine lined up in smart rows on the shelf that ran in a circle around the room, just above head-height, looking like so many butlers at the ready: “Yes sir, very good sir, pop my cork, sir,” I imagined them saying. Normally, I felt comfortable here, could slip into anonymity, but it galled that the server had ferreted out my routine ways.

Sighing, I feigned a read-through of the paper, as usual. The woman next to me – a striking black woman in a coral-colored business suit – was definitely reading hers carefully, each page creased neatly between thumb and forefinger and then flattened on the table before her. Then, she would bend her head low over the article, her neck waving back forth like a person watching a tennis match as she scanned each line. As for me, I really only glanced at the paper so that I would know enough to cover my bases in social situations. When I went out to drinks with my co-workers, I needed to be able at least to sound smart on burning Buddhist temples and which presidential candidate had put his (or her, now) foot in his (or her) mouth at a stump speech yesterday. But really, I was not so much paying attention to my own business as I was trying to eavesdrop.

I was far more interested in the conversation of the two women next to me; it always seems to happen that way in coffee shops. Perhaps it is the proximity of the small wooden tables, one to the next, perhaps the intimacy suggested even among strangers by the fact that we have all clearly escaped our private domains, our kitchen counters, and chosen instead to sip our coffee – in whichever of the myriad ways it can be ordered – surrounded by other people. Coffee shops practically begged one to eavesdrop.

These two particular women were French, or at least, spoke French with flawless, lilting accents. They both, I noticed sourly, were wearing tights even though the temperature had dropped alarmingly in the past few days, as if French fashion were impervious to something as trivial as the weather. One ordered a large hot chocolate in a clipped accent, which annoyed me further. I couldn’t imagine her being so controlling of her environment as to bring along her own vial of milk stashed in her purse. “Yes, a large,” she agreed, bored, when the server asked what size she wanted. She didn’t care; it wasn’t going straight to those Gallic thighs no matter what size it was.

“A double espresso,” the other said politely. How French, I thought with an eye roll, then was mad at myself for being so bitter. They seemed perfectly amiable; their conversation was in high, chirping tones, and they smiled back and forth at one another across the table. I could admit to myself that I was annoyed because I didn’t comprehend more of their conversation despite six years of high school and college French. All I understood was a, “Oui, c’est cool!” here and a “D’accord, d’accord!” of agreement there, but beyond that, their subject matter alluded me.

I went back to pretending I understood the mortgage catastrophe in the business section.

I looked up in relief at the sound of the door opening, combined with a blast of cold air and with Valerie’s entrance. Valerie had a way of breezing into a place, quite literally. She shook off her umbrella with an expression that said not so much that it had been raining on her, but raining for her, for her delight to dance about in the droplets, and to grant the rain the privilege of falling upon the sleeves of her jacket. She smiled at the server, but didn’t even look guilty that she wasn’t placing an order, just here to keep me company. I folded the newspaper gratefully and placed it on the table, rising to hug her hello.

“I’m glad you made it,” I said truthfully. She was fifteen minutes late for our rendezvous.

“Of course I made it, silly,” she said with a grin. “Sorry I’m late. I hope you weren’t bored in my absence.”

I gave a guilty shrug. “Actually, I was listening to the conversation of the two women next to me,” I confessed in a whisper.

Valerie gave a quick glance, an unconcerned shrug. “That goes without saying,” she said casually.

“What’s that?”

“Everyone eavesdrops in coffee shops.”

It wasn’t only me then!

“What? What’s so funny?” Valerie asked. I erased the smile from my lips, leaning in to begin our weekly catch-up chat. The man with the spectacles who held his report out a good foot and a half from his nose; the couple in the corner with their fingers wrapped around their coffee mugs, both staring off into space; the businessman who had just come in and booted up his laptop. I wondered at that moment which ones were eavesdropping on us.