I am in a coffee house in Capitol Hill, Seattle. There are four of us here with laptops. All the laptops are 12 inch Mac ibook G4s.
I am drinking what is, quite possibly, the best Chai I've ever had (a bit of a spicy kick, not too sweet), though I usually prefer Americanos.
A girl outside just used her reflection in the coffee house window to accurately apply black lipstick to her already black-lipsticked mouth.
The barista, who is cute, offered another guy a mocha, even though the guy, who was with a girl, already said he didn't want anything. I think there's some history between the guy and the barista.
Capitol Hill is a bit of a shock to my suburbanized soul. But it is a good shock. A shock I need from time to time.
There is a painting hanging above my table called "Diablo toots his horn". It is art, I suppose. But I think it is creepy. It costs $600.
I am, on and off, watching a twenty-something man(?) roast bucketsful of coffee beans.
I desperately needed a break from my kids this morning. Which makes me sad. It is peaceful here. Piano music plays over my head.
The wi-fi is slowish.
I do not like skinny jeans. I have one pair. But I only wear them rolled up with flip flops or with my tall, leather boots.
I am picking up my good friend Stacy from the bus station in a half hour. She lives in Portland, Oregon. She just moved there in May from Michigan. Which is where I'm from.
A woman wearing a long pink shirt under a short, pilled green sweater just stumbled walking out the door. Everyone stumbles.
There are coffee houses everywhere in Seattle. I love Seattle.