into the coffee shop

I’m not sure I can really say this with words.

I have a date with a woman friend in a coffee shop Saturday morning. I have offered an invitation to ‘have coffee’ to a man who the other night said to a group of us he’s, “Suffering, suffering, suffering.” He calls, he doesn’t call. There’s the coffee shop – that space.

Recently friends from Portland have vacationed in Greece. Friends from Oakland have traveled through Portugal. I’ve gone to the Starbucks in Mission Hills. To the Starbucks in Point Loma. Just some hobo, and who knew an old white guy at a coffee shop counter ordering a grande coffee with a doggy cup of heavy cream and a wooden stick on the side was a bodhisattva? Was all three ghosts come to visit Scrooge?

The Saturday date woman travels to the east coast for Christmas. Ann’s relatives fly from New York City to Santa Barbara for the holidays. If I’m very lucky, I’ll get to go to a coffee shop on some mission of kindness.

There are metaphors and there are metaphors. And there’s metaphors. This isn’t one of ’em.