She’s two, a miniature of her mother. With a fake snake in her hand she glues her eyes on all the pastries thru the glass of the case at her eye level. Red coat from her hook was chosen without regard to her blue polka dot dress or the purple pants underneath. At what two places in time does it occur, the point she begins to care and then returns to the abandonment of not caring about what she wears.
The door is worn at the bottom edge from hundreds of feet pulling the resistance of the closer to exit the shop. A layer of paint would prevent the wood fibers from slipping off onto their shoes, but all the character would leave with it. Each visit, from each person, has left a mark on the place, a collective wear, never enough for one person to say I did that.
At what place does it matter that the entrance of the place has to be clean and painted. Like a well worn bomber jacket, it wouldn’t be the same with a fresh coat of paint. No one comes in looking like they just left the shopping mall with the outfit that sat on the mannequin in the window.
A newspaper and water in one hand, a coffee in the other, one finger lifts from the coffee cup to pull the handle. Catching that spot on the door to open it enough to walk through without spilling any of the liquid.
Like Tom and Jerry batter on a Xmas drink, she tries to get a sip of
How unconsciously the experience of this place jumps into each patron that waits in line. A suburb starbucks with a drive up window would never take in all this has to offer.
She needs to get the coffee fix, the requirement to make it through another day. Its part of her day, as she glues the cell phone to her right ear, first with her hand then her shoulder. Landlines used to tether her to the house; now anyone can grab her anytime, requiring their attention, even when buying coffee.
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