Sunday Morning Spying at Victrola Coffee

A blood red umbrella protects against the persistent precipitation. A barista melts into the exposed brick next to Victrola on Pike, a cigarette in one hand, Mexican Coke in the other. The aroma of grinding coffee penetrates my nostrils the instant I crack the front door. The espresso machine whistles its siren song. Two high school teachers dish about friends and lesson plans. “I hired a wig and hair guy for the play, supposedly he's a big Hollywood type person.” The clanking of MacBook keys find rhythm within the barista’s steam crank ritual. There are no cold necks in Seattle, where scarves are brandished like talismans against the elements. A red-head unveils a pair of gauche flower-print tights. My americano falls cold, forgotten.