Coffee Shop Thoughts

Medium blue suit. Black mock turtle. Hair died blacker. Dude’s sitting beside begging me to be frozen in time. His seems about ’79. I’ve got co-workers who stopped around ’85.

Our 21^st Century is already a quarter past, but it’s hard to see sometimes. The woman door gliding in the classy slacks and fitted blouse. Accenting scarf. Very Katherine Hepburn. Circa ’37. And she’s young. Dressing old works with youth. Dressing young works less with old. I’ll keep that in the back of my mind to write into something soon. Regardless of style, note to self: don’t dress frozen.

Had three occurrences in as many weeks with a person reacting to my age. The phrases vary but are the same. Got a “Wow”. Just a wow. Then a silence. “Would have never guessed”, that was another. “No kidding?” That was my favorite. Always the silence after. Please, just finish your sentence. “Wow, I thought you were way older, like a hundred or something.” At least I would understand.

The trailing silence leaves me space for vanity. They think I’m younger. I did get a “I imagined you were younger,” not too long ago. I’ve just been given a compliment. I think. Maybe not. Never quite feels a compliment, since the vibe quick chills under a shading, that’s too bad, cloud. I’m not the age they want me to be. Suddenly my reality isn’t their reality. Until now. Trailing silence.

I’m aging into having more fun with ageism. I am the age I am. And that’s who I am. I wish you well in your silence. Of course, ageism isn’t just for folks roaming about in my earth years category. I have a much younger friend, in college, who gets along with me just fine. Ask him to talk to a later year Millennial, though, and just step back. Especially if they’re dressed frozen in 2010.

And let’s skip the life is short speeches. I disagree. Life is long. I’m a mere four years into career number four. I see a helluva lot of writing ahead. Twenty years. Maybe longer. Time isn’t running out. And this, as well, isn’t just for me and my grey. M has a coworker in crisis over 25. I know folks currently evolving emotional meltdowns for becoming 40. Dad started dying at 55. He was dying for decades.

I don’t write in coffee shops. Hopeless. My coffee gets cold. And I miss looking at the characters. It’s the characters who make it fun. What is Blue Suit’s name? Does he still own the two-tone cream LTD with the landeau roof? And it’s surely the Coupe, not the four-door. Katherine Hepburn left, and I wish she had stayed. Would have given her my seat. Kate and Blue, that’s a good start to a story. I need to write more fiction. Stories. Poems. A novel. I’m exploring this with poems now. Practicing using less words. Telling tales in a handful of lines. It feels more satisfying than my usual in the moment expressions of mindfulness.

“It takes such eloquence to offer up a scene with so few words.” Someone said that about my poetry recently. It’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about my writing. Why is it so hard to read nice things about my words?

I’m a creator and I need to create. Create whatever mess I manage in any given moment. I overspend energy on thinking about cleaning up the mess.

I’ve spent too much time telling truths. Reading history. Studying facts. I’m proud I was a museum nerd, good interpreter, a half decent educator, but it does feel better telling lies. I need to figure out how to write better lies. Good fiction says true things more powerfully to me than non-fiction. Now that I’m reading more fiction, I’ve observed gaining greater empathy. Towards people. Scenarios. Everyday situations. More inside their view. An empathy more subtle than just the, walk in someone’s shoes, trope.

Digging through my journals, it turns out I’ve been penning poems about love. Not lovey love, hearts and loins love… But everyday love. About the shared shouldering of the weight of an average day love. Carrying groceries. Keeping tires inflated. Economizing recipes because we just dropped a grand on the car. These are acts rooted in love. So maybe my next book of poetry is about love. Feels original enough. Maybe add some lies for telling some truths.

This cappuccino is okay. A bit theatrical, a little too big. But okay. I don’t know what’s happened to the real cappuccino. They come in sizes now. That’s wrong. So wrong. M has a lavender honey latte and I’m concerned. Tastes like flowers and sugar. Disguising the bitter with sweet. That’s a slippery slope. Bitter should be bitter.

There’s a coffee shop in Fairlawn Ohio, Nervous Dog, Barista brings no theater. Just five-star perfect foam. Thinking about you right now, dear Barista. You’re still the best.  

Maybe I should say something to Blue Suit. Dare a conversation instead of just sitting here in my imagination. Maybe not.

1. Cover photo by Author. From Goddess and The Baker, Wabash Avenue, Chicago Illinois.

2 - 6, From Goddess and The Baker, Wabash Avenue, Chicago Illinois. Photos by Author.

© Copyright William Hazel, 2025