I dreamed this

The Unpierced Coffee Barista




I awake in the predawn. The moon hangs high, but is being shoved away by daybreak. My senses come-to and I’m in motion. It’s a day off, which requires a morning of writing. It also requires coffee, not to work, not wake, but of habit and vice.

I put on beaten jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt, flip flops and off I go to the coffee house. It’s a peppy place full of energy and light, no beatniks, no smoking, no depression. The staff is drenched in normalcy. White guys with shirts tucked into khakis, management in smiles and not a tattoo in sight. My favorite barista is working.

She is young, and attractive, clumsy and quiet. She attends her post striking the day with necessity. Her moves are far from nimble, her voice a murmur. I study her innocence and remind myself of Nabokov’s troubles.

Tall and dark, much like the robust brew I order. Rich and inviting, warm to the touch. The perfume is alluring and delicate. I take my vice into my hand and slowly place my lips upon it. It overwhelms the senses. Euphoria rushes from stem to receptor, blood heats and pulses quicken.

Her beauty and crooked smile might feed the addiction greater than the caffeine. The drug murders my will and forces a return. The barista simply drags my heart from bed through traffic. Her presence wakes me. My day may begin, chapter one completed. She continues and brightens the next drinker’s soul.