Americano Rising
I have a fondness for one of the baristas at a local cafe. This particular barista is seldom there when I am. I couldn’t tell you whether or not she’s there at other times because I’m not there then. I make two or three trips out for coffee each morning as a matter of bad habit, and I only encounter her two or three times during an entire week at most. Whenever I do see her, the coffee shop is busy and loud, meaning our interactions are necessarily limited to shouting pleasantries through a plexiglass shield and the business transaction at hand. Between the shop counter and her modest work outfits, I couldn’t tell you much about her physique other than she appears to fall comfortably within the center of the standard distribution for adult human females. Like a sensible person in her line of work, she’s always wearing a cloth mask, and thus I never see her face below the eyes. There is no lingering around for a lull to break the ice and introduce myself either. The moment someone hands me a coffee, I get right on out of there and away from all those vectors. I mean people. Vectors are people, and we mustn’t forget that. The takeaway here is that I’m drinking too much coffee and need to cut back pronto.