Floyd's after you left

A bum homeless man just came in with his house in tow. He's trying to use a credit card, but it's declined. Tried another...declined. In the spirit of the customer is always right, or perhaps out of humanity, they are giving him a cup free of charge. I admire the barista's patience and positive demeanor.

As the man sits down in the corner, the one with the cushy couch and chairs, I grab my headphones and put them in. Just in case he tries to talk to me. There's quite a contrast to his freezing hands -- that he was blowing into when he first arrived for warmth -- and the steaming mug of coffee that now occupies them.

The barista has abandoned her post behind the counter, and has sat - facing me. Her braids are piled across the top of her head. With pencil in hand, she is jotting away in a journal. I wonder If she's taking notes on the same thing I am. I sit with my hair pulled into a ponytail, typing observantly on my laptop. We're using contrasting forms of writing, but we both pause every so often. Looking up, and gazing for the next thought to transfer to our pencil or keyboard.

He's leaving now. With the promise that he'll return Saturday with the two bucks he owes for the cup of joe.