The coffee house down the street is just close enough for me to make it there and back on my morning break to refresh my cup. And it’s just far enough away that I can barely make it there and back on my morning break to refresh my cup, if you get what I’m saying. I can hoof it there in about five minutes, especially when it’s cold and rainy and the wind is blowing the cold rain down my collar. And once I’ve walked down the street in that, I can make it back in about four minutes, leaving six minutes to ask for a coffee, pay the dude behind the counter, fill up my travel mug, snap on the cover and go!
But that’s only when there is no more than one guy in line ahead of me, because after he orders his latte, pays, and the barrister or whatever they’re called does all that grinding and pressing and steaming and other latte-making magic, at least five minutes are gone down the tubes where I’m must standing there, waiting. I don’t need any of that barrister magic. All I have to do is give him my money and go. Argh.
If there are four, as there were this morning, and the guy in front of me lets a cute girl cut in front of him, the timing goes from pretty dicey to impossible. And yet somehow I wasn’t late getting back to my desk. Latte-making dudes weren’t the only ones making magic today.
This Is Drivel 