(no subject)
So easily and so often we assume the best so we can think the worst. We nourish our discomfort until they become problems that never really existed so that we feel important.
Of course you don't think about these things when you should, and I am not thinking about this as I sit in the cafe waiting for my moccachino. I had expected it to be made already since I had ordered it before, not realising that they did not have card facilites. I told the barrista I was going to make a quick dash to the bank, fretting during my little journey and in the ATM queue because I thought my coffee would be getting cold.
When I got back to the cafe, he had not started with my coffee, but taken another order instead. He looked at me with mild surprise and struggled to remember my order. I reiterated it precisely as his memory returned, and after giving me a nod of relief he proceeded to tinker with the coffee machine, by which time I realised that the coffee would take a longer several minutes longer than usual, and perched myself on the wooden chair closest to the automatic glass doors.
I think about how I almost squashed myself on the way out by pushing the door that obviously said "Pull". I don't think I am clumsy by nature, I think it is my impatience that makes me so. As a child, not a day went by when I would not spill a cup of something on the dining table.
I make flippant observations about the barrista - how he is taking so long, how he is so tall and lean, and not all that bad looking with a pretty good sense of dress. He has brown hair and is wearing a white printed t-shirt over a long sleeved brown one. His continued struggle with the coffee machine is unnoticed by me at that time, even when another worker walks past and asks him if he is okay. I assume he is new.
I am not prepared for the slap in the face when, I go up to collect and pay for my coffee, I realise that he only has one full hand. I stand there, the scornful, now the scorned.
My brain struggles to come to terms with the shock when he offers me my change with a one fingered left hand. I am not sure of the nature of the mutation - perhaps it is an amputation, or perhaps he was born that way. Do I look at it? Do I look away? Do I say something?
It is only a matter of seconds before I regain my composure. I don't stare at it, but I don't look away. I look at it like that is the way it is meant to be. I let it be.
Of course, I drop my change on the floor in my flustered attempt to stuff it into my wallet. I thank him for his attempt to retreive it (I am quicker), and for the coffee. As I leave, he straigens up into what I initally thought was his extremely formal barrista pose - with his left hand bent behind his back.
The coffee is too milky, and too cold.
But it doesn't matter.
Of course you don't think about these things when you should, and I am not thinking about this as I sit in the cafe waiting for my moccachino. I had expected it to be made already since I had ordered it before, not realising that they did not have card facilites. I told the barrista I was going to make a quick dash to the bank, fretting during my little journey and in the ATM queue because I thought my coffee would be getting cold.
When I got back to the cafe, he had not started with my coffee, but taken another order instead. He looked at me with mild surprise and struggled to remember my order. I reiterated it precisely as his memory returned, and after giving me a nod of relief he proceeded to tinker with the coffee machine, by which time I realised that the coffee would take a longer several minutes longer than usual, and perched myself on the wooden chair closest to the automatic glass doors.
I think about how I almost squashed myself on the way out by pushing the door that obviously said "Pull". I don't think I am clumsy by nature, I think it is my impatience that makes me so. As a child, not a day went by when I would not spill a cup of something on the dining table.
I make flippant observations about the barrista - how he is taking so long, how he is so tall and lean, and not all that bad looking with a pretty good sense of dress. He has brown hair and is wearing a white printed t-shirt over a long sleeved brown one. His continued struggle with the coffee machine is unnoticed by me at that time, even when another worker walks past and asks him if he is okay. I assume he is new.
I am not prepared for the slap in the face when, I go up to collect and pay for my coffee, I realise that he only has one full hand. I stand there, the scornful, now the scorned.
My brain struggles to come to terms with the shock when he offers me my change with a one fingered left hand. I am not sure of the nature of the mutation - perhaps it is an amputation, or perhaps he was born that way. Do I look at it? Do I look away? Do I say something?
It is only a matter of seconds before I regain my composure. I don't stare at it, but I don't look away. I look at it like that is the way it is meant to be. I let it be.
Of course, I drop my change on the floor in my flustered attempt to stuff it into my wallet. I thank him for his attempt to retreive it (I am quicker), and for the coffee. As I leave, he straigens up into what I initally thought was his extremely formal barrista pose - with his left hand bent behind his back.
The coffee is too milky, and too cold.
But it doesn't matter.