It was a terrific little coffee shop. Three guys who’d met in the Peace Corps in El Salvador and learned a thing or two about coffee started it about ten years ago. The first couple of years, they made it work as best they could. Loans from their folks made it a real “mom and pop” place, they all liked to joke. They were three blocks from the college then. When the couple who owned the local print shop retired, they snapped up the lease, and it put them right across from the student center. The “roast-in-our-own-house” appeal, the location, and the new lease, which allowed them–after crunching the numbers–to charge 50 cents less per latte made them the biggest success in this tiny little town with a tiny college.
For her almost four years at school, this had been her place. Her place to study as a first-year, where she learned the art of the pour over her sophomore year, and where she advanced to roasting and putting her accounting minor to work as a junior. If you couldn’t find her on campus, all you had to do was come to the coffee shop.
Now, she laughed to Meghan, It was where she would finish her memoir.
“Why is this taking you so long? Just make up some shit.”
“I dunno, Meggs, I’m no good at that. That’s why I didn’t take that stupid fiction seminar. I didn’t know how big a pain it’d be to write about my own life, though.”
“Well,” Meghan faked a serious, funereal tone, “You have lived a long, accomplished life. How will you fit it all into 8-10 pages?”
“Shut UP!” she laughed. “That’s not what I mean.
“It’s terrible. I can’t figure out how to even start. It’s either boring-boring-boring or completely crazy.”
“Maybe you should just talk about the coffee shop–you’ve spent most of your life here, from what I can tell.”
She held up her cup. “A tale of my one, true, caffeinated love.”