Dear Boy on the Side of the Road,

This is how I shall refer to you since I have no other identification to use. Your brown eyes looked sad. I only saw them for a moment out the car window, but I know sadness when I see it. You did not have a phone, and there were no houses in sight. My dad thinks you ran away, but when I asked if we could help, he said no. He has said no before, called me a bleeding heart, snowflake, and right after that, he says, "You can't help everyone." In some cases, I agree. Not this one.

Sorry she could not help,

Girl in the Navy Honda

Dear Chick Fil A Worker From Last Monday,

I wish I knew your name, for I love you. Not in the way I love my grandfather but I love you like I love plain cheeseburgers and chicken sandwiches. The way I love food is the way I love you. Why? Because you have never gotten my order wrong. I know exactly who you are. You have served me five times at least. Of course, Chick Fil A as a franchise is known for good service, but your smile lights up the delivery window.

Sincerely thankful,

Girl in the Navy Honda

Dear McDonald's Worker From Thursday,

I know you have a name, but I do not know it. I will probably never see you again. But I want you to know that I am mad. I wanted a plain burger. No tomatoes or lettuce or mayonnaise. I understand that maybe your day was not perfect, but I wanted my cheeseburger! Preferably edibile. Also, your food is not good, but that is probably your company's fault. I do not blame you for your employer's shortcomings. Next time, I want a plain cheeseburger.

P.S. The french fries were not bad, but too much salt was added.

Upset at lack of plain cheeseburger,

Girl in the Navy Honda

Dear Target Worker, aka SHARON,

Is it wrong to hate someone you do not know? I do not think so. (Hint, since apparently you cannot take one, this is about you, Sharon!) When you stood beside me in the feminine products aisle, I was annoyed. When you stood in front of me to block my view as you were TEXTING ON YOUR STUPID SAMSUNG, I was perturbed. But you crossed a line, okay, when you asked ME to move. I stood my ground until you rolled your eyes and left. You just lost a customer, Sharon, I hope you are proud of yourself. By the way, just because your nametag is purple, does not make it cute.

Definitely NOT Affectionately,

Girl in the Navy Shirt

Dear Next Door Neighbor,

I do not like you.

P.S. Stop cutting our grass. Your property line stops at the green box. Accept it.

As Indifferent as Possible,

Girl in the White House, No, Not That White House

I haven't seen a stranger in a while. I go through a world of the same old faces. The shopkeeper who tells me times are rough. The man who grunts behind the counter. My neighbour always in her slippers, the one who says Good Morning as if every day is the brightest she has ever seen.

On my balcony are plants I call Alfred and Rodney. As I water them one day, I see a woman across the courtyard. She is placing a cardboard box up high. Her shirt lifts slightly up over her hips. Then the cardboard box slips down and she picks it up again.

The second time I catch sight of her, she is dancing in her room. The third, she is walking across the courtyard.

She has skin the colour of dark gold, and her hair curls around her face. She walks lightly, purposefully. On her way out, she pets the caretaker's cat.

She must be new.

I was sitting on a bench in the park when he entered my sight. Now I am staring hard at him. Copper red hair, white skin, lean frame, sharp features, hazel eyes…..

‘Hazel’

Something shines in my brain.

‘Hazel’

‘Hazel’

‘Hazel’

Nah! Nothing. But hazel is indeed a beautiful colour for eyes.

I am looking all around now. My gaze jumping from a group of merry children playing in the sand pit to a forlorn old lady sitting on a bench. Back and forth. Back and forth. And absentmindedly I am again scoping the stranger.

I cannot read him. What is he thinking about? A donut? A number of donuts? A whole mountain of donuts? I am really very hungry.

I study his features. Sharp features with no curves, just edges. There is no expression on his face. His face is emotionless like that of a statue, or more appropriately, an effigy.

‘Effigy’

‘Effigy’

‘Effigy’

Interesting word! I like its taste on my tongue. The way it makes my tongue hang in the vacuum of my mouth is interesting.

‘Effigy’

‘Effigy’

‘Eh-fuh-jee’

Sounds weird. Why is it even a word?

Anyway.....Why is he wearing black? Someone he loved must have died. Someone close. Someone dear. Or maybe not. Maybe it was someone worthless. Someone just ‘someone’. Maybe I know this ‘someone’. I might have crossed him on the street sometime. I may shed a tear for the departed soul. But I don’t have to.

I look at my wrist watch. I should leave now. But what about the stranger? Should I ask for his permission to leave? Should I tell him that his eyes are beautiful? Should I ask him if he likes donuts? Should I thank him for helping me with the intriguing discovery about ‘effigy’? Should I say a few words of condolence for the departed? Should I apologise to him for staring? Nah! He is just a stranger. You don’t greet, acknowledge, apologise or comfort strangers. You are not bound to perform any formality. You don’t have to think hard. You can just come and go. This freedom is the best part about strangers. I like strangers.

I’ve been working on a puzzle

It has no box

It has no picture

Made only of thoughts

I’ve been working on a puzzle

Pieces and patterns

Moving them around

Seeking what matters

I’ve been working on a puzzle

It’s consumed my mind

Kept me up at night

But I’ve been blind

I’ve been working on a puzzle

With the wrong eyes

So much so

The picture couldn’t materialize

I’ve been working on a puzzle

Day by day

Piece by piece

Not ready to walk away

I’ve been working on a puzzle

That’s drove me crazy

But somehow I see

The answers lately

I’ve been working on a puzzle

That’s quite the kicker

And I think maybe…

I love the picture.

I was at a nightclub in DC. One of many, many nights of clubbing. I was a sophomore in college. I don’t remember ever dancing before college. But those nights...I never wanted them to end. The stranger was tall and black. The music was loud and fast and full of bass. I could feel him behind me. He moved playfully, a little bit teasing, a little bit challenging. I turned around with a smile on my lips, but I was looking at the ground, at his feet. I watched in wonder as his movements synced with mine, gracefully, perfectly. Astonished, I looked up at him, he was smiling down at me. We danced with abandon, testing each other’s skill, continually impressed. I didn’t think I would notice if the entire club suddenly emptied because I was so entranced. But I did notice, out of the corner of my eye, my friends were carrying my roommate down the stairs and out the door. I put my hand on the stranger’s wrist. I breathed “Thank you so much.” and rushed out the door. I will never forget what it felt like to dance with that stranger.

Every Sunday she's there, typically on register ten but sometimes register nine or eleven.

Her hair's streaked with grey, betraying her age but not so much to resign her to elderhood quite yet.

Her accent is thick and Eastern European; I don't claim to know where from, since there's plenty of diversity in that region and it's not nice to lump folks together. Yet her words are clearly enunciated and her vocabulary is extensive, speaking from the experience of one who's spent time with those who had to learn English as their second language. It's a shitty language to have to learn. I count myself lucky I was born with it.

She wears thick glasses like me, which lend themselves to the caricature I'm sure people paint of her.

I watch the other customers interact with her in frustration. Shoppers aren't the most considerate souls. They're not thinking about the folks around them, they're thinking about what's in their basket, their cupboards, where they're heading next, what they couldn't get, what they managed to get, etc. Moreover most folks are too lazy to abide by the strict rituals that get others through the day. They don't realize how lucky they are not to need those boundaries to hold themselves together.

Right now though, I'm all about the rituals. I have no gods, but the fact that this woman still stands here to serve me in times of mass panic makes her a priestess to me. I will gladly bow and make supplication at her mechanized altar in whatever fashion she preaches. I stand behind the painted symbol, waiting for her to prepare to bless my offerings.

Maybe because I've interacted politely before her manner with me is more relaxed, but no less critical. I've memorized the steps and requests: wait until she's wiped down the converyor, stay at the end of the belt and let the food go to her, hold the discount card up to the glass but not too high because the scanner beam isn't good for my eyes, use the sanitizer before and after touching the keypad, don't reach on either side, wait until she places the items on the end away from her to heft them into my cart. I stay submissive, despite the stress in my shoulders of having to navigate through a maze of one-way aisles with fogging spectacles and a short wishlist I barely got filled. I know from listening intently through mine and others' interactions that her words aren't just for her own protection; she worries about me (and my irradiated pupils) too. Hence I don't bristle at her mothering, like I see many other customers do when being treated like petulant children of the goddess. I just nod quietly and submit.

[On an aside: I've noticed as much as Christians tend to think of themselves as sheep, they don't follow their community shepherds very well. Maybe stubborn, bleating goats would be a more apt analogy for them.]

She manages to politely chat through thick fabric layers and accent about what I managed to find today, the interesting brands of soap I've discovered out of necessity, how I'm using the assortment of vegetables I cobbled together for meals, and ends by bestowing words of protection on me, reminding me to wash my hands outside the door. I accept her grace and my bounty, thanking her as I go.

Whatever gods she believes in, I pray they continue to protect her so I can ask for her blessings again next Sunday.

I’m a wimp

so I hid in my room.

I only heard his voice

as he repaired the gas in the kitchen.

“How’s it looking?” Dad asked.

The warm tenor of his voice responded:

“It’s looking good.”

He’d been working outside

for the past forty-five minutes

Switching out the old tank

for a shiny new one.

Out the window

I had caught a glimpse:

Honey-brown hair

on a well-toned figure.

I heard the smile in his voice,

as he puttered around

Chatting with Dad,

and a good-natured laugh.

I couldn’t see his face,

but his voice said enough.

The even, cheerful inflections

evoked a reassuring sense.

Maybe it’s in his nature

to avoid a mournful tone.

Or maybe it’s his custom

as a professional serviceman.

Whatever the reason,

he did himself proud.

He gave simple hope

to yet another uncertain home.

After a thorough check

he pronounced the stove good.

He took off again

in his forest green truck.

No doubt in his future plans

was to do it all again--

Bestowing his particular skills

to many a waiting household.

Day after day,

he’d fix pipes, tanks, and stoves

Bringing a positive vibe

in his undulating tone.

Does he love his work

This nameless, tireless saint?

One can’t say for sure

Only that he smiles a lot

and, after all, it is his job.

He was handsome and tall

Ride the bus

Always smiled at me every weekday for six months when he saw me

He was always with his buddies

His voice was soft but masculine

His hair was thick and black

I never knew his name

He is a distant but happy memory now

she's always picking flowers;

not extraordinary ones ~

more like

buttercups or dandelions.

she's pretty old

but tall and confident,

with a remarkable face

and silver hair,

that i see glimmering

in the fading sunlight.

as she stands in this big

illuminated field

of wildflowers,

bending down,

picking those pathetic,

fragile, pretty

artworks of nature.

Every morning he orders a small hot toasted coconut coffee. 10 pumps creamer. 15 pumps sugar. Even numbers always. He wears dreads , the color always reminded me of hazelnuts. They fall like vines that seemed to have wrapped around my heart to his shoulders some days , but others sat on the top of his head as if it was a crown he wore with pride. He wore a red shirt which reminded me of the red orchid tree in the front of the shop he always managed to go by. He stood 6’2 and wore glasses but still couldn’t see how i was falling for him. He carries a side bag , which hold a note pad , pen and book. He sits from 9 am to 10 am. Returns at 12 for his daily chocolate chip muffin . I smile at him everyday , he smiles back. A rush of butterflies run through my body faster than I rush to the counter to serve him every morning and afternoon. His brown skin glows so beautifully when the mornings are sunny. Everyday i wonder if he notices me , like i notice every detail about him.

Sincerely, The Coffee Shop Girl