i sit to write in a coffee shop for the first time this year. it’s early august and the air outside is thick with pre-rainfall heat.

someone recently told me that coffee has a 12 hour half life, and i don’t exactly know what that means but i’m trying not to drink it past noon if i can help it – if i’m trying to sleep at around 10:30PM every night. so i order a decaf.

i need something warm, and want the flavour – something to soothe me in the early evening hum.

i sit alone at a large table, facing the full-wall window beyond a row of tables for two and three. i watch a young man walk in and pleasantly kiss who i assume is his girlfriend with a tenderness often reserved for the familiar. sometimes i envy these small comforts and affections, but i am happy nonetheless.

happy to be sitting in the light bustle of the shop. i didn’t realize i’d missed the tardemark noises; the clanging of baristas’ utensils, the comfortable buzz of anonymous chatter, a tap running water for a few seconds before turning off – the hiss of steam, someone calling out an order, and the calm, unthreatening music floating over everything.

what could be more perfect for someone looking to quiet all their inner noise?

a man reads his newspaper and sips his drink alone. he’s older and looks relatively content, and i wonder about his life and if he’s happy – if he has a wife (or husband) who he loves dearly, or children who have all grown up and fled home to start new lives of their own. or maybe he has no one and these are treasured stolen moments when he can be in the company of others for at least a little while.

he’s stopped reading and now he’s staring out the window and i wonder what he’s looking at. there are tables outside too, scattered along a makeshift patio, and trees strewn in between. i see the animated face and gestures of a woman probably recounting some new personal tale to her companion. she alternates between laughing and looks of horror or disgust. she turns her head to scoff and waves her hand dismissively, and i have a feeling she might be talking about a man.

it’s nice to sit here and soak it all in. i want to make a regular practice of it, so i can get even a little bit of writing in, day after day. and all it costs to stay indefinitely is $2.89 for a cup of decaf coffee.

i bet it’s cozy here in the winter. i imagine what it must look like from the outside, from the perspective of a shivering passerby hurrying home through the cold. surely she would gladly walk through the warm yellow light spilling through the full-wall window into the 6PM dark. maybe she would look in and smile at the thought of the warmth waiting for her at home.

and on the inside, there i would be, cozy in an ovesized sweater, maybe sitting in the same spot i’m sitting at now, watching her walk by. maybe there will be a light snowfall, and it’ll make a pretty picture through the window. i’ll look around to see if anyone else is struck by it – all of us there, sheltered from the cold, happily tucked away in some softly-lit, quietly buzzing corner of the city – but no one will have noticed. they’ll go on talking or reading or lightly laughing, so i’ll keep the beauty of the moment to myself.

i truly believe there’s something magical about coffee shops on winter evenings, and i hope to find that small everyday magic again this winter too – in cups of decaf coffee in the new dark of early evening, safe from all manner of snow and storm.