I've seen so many ships sail in, just to head back out again and go off sinking.

well, i can finally stop daydreaming that you'll come through those doors and order a hot coffee with soy & smile at me with your goofy grin.

it's always liberating when we can finally let go of the ones we love and love to hate, but love & love, even if he leaves you on sides of roads in upstate new york, even if he loves another girl at the same time as he loves you, & even if he stomped on your heart more than once.

& i mean really let go. they'll always be there, in the back of our minds and somewhere in a crevice in our hearts, but when that door of hope, of chance, of maybe someday closes, it's liberating.

i recently let go of someone i held tightly to for two years, and i feel like i am finally waking up from a long, heavy sleep. i can stretch my arms wide, yawn a big yawn, and drink some serious coffee (while running around and pouring it for others, of course) and know there is a new day ahead.

The Boy from Next Door has not come in now for approximately a week and a half. this entirely bums me out. he's one of the customers that i'd love to sit down and just talk with. just shoot the shit with. sip coffee with. because we begin these conversations that we both know could be afternoon-long conversations, and it's too bad that i am stuck behind the counter and beneath my dinky hat, and he is stuck behind Next Door & what i imagine must be a cubicle and things of Importance, like building structures and circumferences and floor plans. perhaps.

he wears good shoes.

we just hired a new girl. i really like her. she's one of those incredibly positive, upbeat people that can laugh at everything and make those around her drop their cranky moods and smile a little. it's a nice change.

i've grown increasingly curious about mothers who bundle their at least 4 children, all under the ages of 4, into extensive, complex strollers & insist on maneuvering them up the stairs, through the narrow doorways of the cafe, and into the middle of the already very crowded dining room. they especially like to park their mini-van sized strollers next to the elderly couples reading their papers. it's kind of humorous to watch - the kids spill out into the dining room, usually bouncing & yelling, sometimes climbing on the counter & reaching into the tip jar (yes, this happened more than once), and the mother usually has to tend to Baby that is bundled in at least 10 layers of outdoor clothing, & the old couples shift uncomfortably in their chairs, trying to pretend the escapade does not actually exist & that they are not annoyed by it, & that the child dropping their hot chocolate all over the floor is not a source of stress, & that the mother has not escaped this reality via her iphone. not only is their entrance a show in itself (with the stroller, screaming children, diaper bags, bottles, purses, & not to mention the winter gear - mittens, hats, snowpants, runny noses, sleds, snow, boots) but their orders are so complex that i'd sometimes rather be sitting in a calculus class back in high school, or licking a toilet seat.

"i want a kid's pb&J, but without the jelly, & with extra chunky peanut butter, & i want one half of the bread toasted & one half cold, & it needs to be cut into eighths or else he won't eat it. & i want a skim latte but i want it half decaf and i want the milk only warmed to 150 degrees, exactly."

after listing various other complexities at an astounding 10 words per second, they generally proceed to walk away after this. this is because a) they believe they own the place/the world & b) because their children have decided to lick and blow breath steam clouds onto the glass cake cases and draw pictures in them. of course, this usually gets a nonchalant, 'oh honey, don't touch the glass' before the iphone sucks them back in.


the coffee must be just that good.

& beyond the walls of the cafe: i star-gazed with a friend last night. i showed him orion's belt, among other constellations. i saw a shooting star. there's nothing more gratifying than just looking at the sky at night in the winter. clear, vast, with those little breath-cloud interruptions. he also brought me an orchid in a shot glass of water, which i found to be strangely romantic & also just strange. a cop did make an appearance while we were star gazing to ask us what, exactly, we were doing, & "if we were okay?" i think everybody should star-gaze on a weekly basis, & always with someone else.

that, & i've been doing some serious modest mouse listening.