Cafe Black Beans usually opened at seven in the morning and catered to the highly focused strollers, joggers, newspaper boys, janitors, doctors, that got off the night shifts or someone like me who wasted all their efforts and energies in the night.
I liked to sit at the right flank of the cafe whenever I happened to come here; it was that portion of the building that enjoyed the rationed display of the morning sun along with the mesmerising music from the Sufi meditation centre that stood beside it. Although the center had been advised to use sound proof panels, which I believe they adhered to, like a good Sufi American, they liked to keep one of their windows open early in the morning from where the enchanting melodies wafted in the air that just about made it to the right flank of the Black Beans.
Hence, my purpose of a place became permeated with platitude for that half hour of the day. My choices suddenly punctuated with justifiable connotations, quelling any social unease within my mind. I could be dignified in this two by four feet corner. I could choose and discard with an aristocratic air. The corner empowered the woman within me.
Sitting and revelling in my throne, I saw him one day; he ordered coffee and a sub.
“Which sub you want?” the disinterested carrot top waitress asked him, her headphones stuck deep in her ears.
“Ham and coleslaw with egg mayonnaise. Give me some sausage on the side with cheese and onions.”
“Ok, Ham and cheese.” She whizzed past him in her hover board.
“Thank you,” said he, took out his notebook and scribbled for thirty seconds, pursed his lips and scribbled some more.
I never had a thing for anyone across the Atlantic so far.