Cafe Black Beans usually opens at seven in the morning and caters to the highly focused strollers, joggers, newspaper boys, janitors and doctors off the night shifts or someone like me who wasted all their efforts and energies in the night.
I like to sit at the right flank of the cafe. It is that portion of the building which enjoys a rationed display of the morning sun along with mesmerising music from the Sufi meditation centre that stands beside it. Although the center has been advised to use sound proof panels, which I believe they adhered to, like a good Sufi American, they like to keep one of their windows open early in the morning from whence the enchanting melodies waft in the air that just about makes it to the right flank of the Black Beans.
Hence, my purpose of a place becomes permeated with significance for that half hour of the day quelling any social unease within my mind. I could be dignified in this two by four feet corner. I could choose and discard with aristocratic air. The corner empowers 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 onion rings.” Certainly not an American going by his wilful calorie abandon.
“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 till that moment.