A deal over a cup of Starbucks Coffee

The Deal over a cup of Starbucks Coffee

He opens the glass doors to the coffee shop, steps in and looks for available seats. He decides to settle on one of the two blue sofas separated by an embellished coffee table tucked at a corner as if on purpose: an ideal seating for two lovers to chart their love lives while listening to soothing music, and encouraged to bare their souls with each sip by that scent—an aroma that awakens the taste buds of every Starbucks customer; taking them to the door steps of their nighttime dreams.

He dusts the seat with a handkerchief, reclines to the far right, adjusts for comfort, and makes sure his red silk tie is in place, before reaching for his super fast laptop that had been begging to be used. It’s his latest toy, customized to his liking, delivered by a polite-face FedEx employee. He had signed the delivery sheet with the sheer excitement of an innocent boy. He opens his laptop and streams to the Internet, launches his Myspace account, and scrolls down the names of his friends and clicks on the profile of his date to double-check.

Not that he isn’t familiar with who she is as exhibited by her profile description, numerous photos, Blog messages, and phone conversations that stretched to the wee hours of the morning; he wants to look at her photos to imbed her image before it gets secluded to the world of memory. In a few minutes he’ll see her in person for the first time. Everything is going to change?

The question running through his mind like a jet on a runway is: Is she all that she is? He leans back, rubs his palms and slides them between his ears to make his hair look sleek, wipes his face, and then beams forth a demeanor—a pose of an assured young man, highly accomplished, a veritable gentleman in an age of virtual feats.

He looks at his wrist watch (Versace with diamond initials BNG) two minutes had elapsed. That fast?
“ I just came in seconds ago.”
He is curious about the meeting, wants to be cautious, but never to appear intimidated by any over achievers, especially a young woman, a bright woman. Not on my first date please.
He preferred this particular Starbucks coffee shop, it’s a five minutes walk from his office—a consulting firm making big bucks from oil companies. The idea was that the walk from his office to the shop would do him some good; times to contemplate, think things through, and decide on a strategy of approach. More importantly, he needed the exercise.

He leans forward and decides against the impulse to check on the markets. The final bell of trade at the New York stock exchange will sound out in approximately three minutes his time. The same time his date is to make an entry into the coffee shop. No lady wants to see a guy surfing the net on her first date right? He closes the laptop and cases it. With the latest Apple product aside, he can focus on the big task ahead of him: pulling off a first date in person with the woman of his dreams?
He leans backwards again, crosses his legs, makes sure his red silk tie is resting perfectly on his right thigh—an elegant match for his designer pants, the one he got during a seasonal sales at Kohl’s. He places his fingers together forming an inverted V inches away from his nose—that alluring facial feature readily telling everyone at all times of his handsomeness. He starts to think, many thoughts racing through his mind.

The image of his date flashes through him, a vivid image. That photo of her in the Bahamas (A birthday gift from a friend of hers. It was a surprise photo taken by the photographer, the genius behind those enticing billboard images of Victoria Secret’s models, images propelling the craze for lovers, husbands and wana-be lovers disguising as romance connoisseurs, who flood Victoria Secret’s stores wanting to buy that special gift for their-one-and-only). It’s a perfect image, one that he approves and looking forward to match up to. In her two-piece bikini, flashing a healthy smile, a slight sunlight that enhances the glow of her body and exotic skin color, plus the heaven-like beach in the background, makes it a memorable image in his mind. An image of delight—a tease, a classy appeal, glamour, invitation and dreams rolled up in one. He sees in that image liveliness, a romance in heaven. What a concept.

The music playing in the background had changed from a love song by a well-known singer he can’t pinpoint (Al Green, Barry White? he has no clue), to an instrumental rendition of ‘Ballerina Girl’, the Spanish guitar plucking the melody in that spirit of L’Amore understood by those who’ve been affected by the spell of romance ushered by the Mediterranean lure of Costa del Sol. He looks to his right and sights a couple two seats away, grooving to the music. From their mannerisms, he could tell they were newly weds. Look at that, him fixing her hair, both of them drinking a tall mocha from the same cup, how romantic.

He looks at his watch, three minutes gone. Anticipation has a way of prolonging time, stretching it almost to the reach of eternity. The coffee shop wasn’t busy—very unusual for the day and time. Most of the orders were coming from the drive thru—too slow as well. Since he stepped into the shop, apart from the lovey-dovey couple, the only person who came in was a guy in a black leather jacket, wearing the same designer pants he would have won if not for the red tie (the stripes would have been competing with the tie, too flashy). He thought, what a coincidence of dressing it would have been. He had paid 35 bucks for those same pants instead of the original tag price of $125 (one of the things he learned from her). The guy gave him a what’s-up nod, and he responded with a how-do-you-do nod and out the door, the guy was gone. He has good taste in dressing; I dig his style, highly metropolitan.

Back on his watch, four minutes had elapsed. In a minute his lady will make an entrance. Those glass doors will open, and thoughts started speeding through his mind. What will be his first reaction, the first impression of her on a face-to-face encounter? Will she come across as a confident, I know-what-I-want-and-I-am-going-for-it kind of woman who loves surprise gifts? Will she be as lively as she appears in that photo of hers with her multiracial and diverse ethnic friends in a trendy nightspot in South beach? Or will she be a snob, enjoy a cup of coffee with him, polite in conversation and then say goodbye? Never to be seen again, change her location, delete him as a friend on Myspace, even leave the country? Some of the options will never happen to him he concludes, but shit happens you know!

Catching himself swearing in his head, he wipes his face, changes his pose from a consultant-minded, risk calculation frame of mind, to the posture of a sweetheart waiting for his beloved. At this state, the mystery of her choice of location is mind-boggling. Coffee shop for a first date? He cannot wrap his brains around that choice. She had basically given him two choices: a coffee shop or a bookstore. He opted for the coffee shop since it’s a walking distance from his job site. Knowing that, she begged him not to come with his car.
“Call me superstitious or crazy, the kind of car you drive tells of the kind of relationship you will have.”
No further explanation. She wanted to prove wrong her theory based on the experience of her past relationships.
“Please I beg you don’t come with your car. Would you do that for me honey?”
“Yes I will,” end of story.
If they decide to go somewhere else, they’ll ride in her car, described as
“Not too fancy or too ghetto either, just perfect for the woman I Am.”
No further details.

From the conversations they’ve had over the phone, online chats, and sometimes-phony text messages, he knows she is a lady of refined taste, cultured, intelligent, funny and vivacious. She had educated him on the excellent offerings of fine cuisine, where to shop for the best chocolate in town (his most delectable weak spot to a point of addiction), how to spot an elegant apparel and pay less for it, and so many other things about life that she says,
“Experience and Association has blessed me with.”
But why will she settle for a coffee shop or a bookstore for a first date? Why not a porch outing—a limousine tour of the metro, an evening serenaded by the best live Jazz music the city can offer? Go to a theater or listen to classical opera, sitting on those elite balconies? Why not a trip to the conservatory for an eclectic encounter with the symphony? Or a romantic dinner in that revolving restaurant so famous for its zest? And off course why not a get away to the Caribbean—that land of her utmost adoration?

This he could not decipher, but content that in a minute some of his questions will be answered as soon as she walks in through those glass doors.

The jolly couple exits the building, clinging to each other like lovebirds in a nest on a cozy afternoon of blue skies and refreshing breeze. The waiter with a ponytail is busy laughing with another red-faced employee, with a true sign of blush flashing all over her face. He must have said something real flattering to cause her to blush so… Throngs of birds fly by and swarm a tree of red leaves close to the window. The music slows down to Nat King Cole, he hums the words “…it will be forever…” inaudibly.

As soon as the song subsides, there is a pause, everything in the room seems to be in a trance of anticipation, the world around him is streaming to a moment, and the universe is playing along. He looks at his watch, five minutes to the dot. He gives the whole room a quick glance; the corner of his eye catches a figure approaching the glass doors. He turns his whole body and focuses on her entrance. She is on time. She swings the door open, sees him standing, mesmerized as if she is from another planet—that planet of dazzling models and charming souls. He opens his mouth, his heart throbs, the wait is over, and the words came out, “Maria!!!!” his mind beeps: a creature nonpareil.

Journal

The journal is that special place where we transform thoughts, actions and other aspects of life into a language that we consider best expresses the observation, maintains the record, etcetera.

Its actually a fascinating process: there are millions of thoughts running through our minds, a host of actions taking place, behaviors and patterns, and so on and so forth. How do we select what to write in our journals? What influences us to jot down a thought today, cascade over a favorite quote tomorrow, revisit a darling moment the next day, and then reminisce in subsequent lines? Why is there a pattern in what we journal?

Does it reflect our personality or is it a revelation thereof? When you go back and pick up that leather cover journal and dust it off; open its pages, read a few lines here and there, or gleam through specific notations, can it still bring out the same emotions that prompted its recording years ago? Or does it offer clues to an understanding of yourself today; things you missed in the past? Does it drive you into regrets or does regret itself becomes pity of a sad decision? Does it propel you into action, to make a change and foster an incredible belief in your strengths?

The journal itself as an entity has its own life doesn't it? It grows from rambles, blurbs of words and sentences, to phrases cramped into meaningful expositions, which in time becomes an historical witness

(Yes on the twenty first of March 1804 I had boiled eggs and potato salad that made my stomach growled in agony. I wish I had the courage to tell that girl who invited me for dinner that she is a lousy cook. I wonder what she'll be cooking when she is twenty. It's over with her)

The Journal is our friend at least to some of us, and to others, more than a friend. We can talk (in writing off course), lash out at her, reveal our most private/intimate thoughts whether sublime or plain nasty. The best listener she is. We can talk and talk (write and write) till ink runs dry and yet she would still be waiting for more. She is the one who lets us flesh out our anger and frustration, celebrate our glories and achievements, question our motives, defend our manners, destroy and rebuild.

She says nothing but takes it all; all emotions to her are spills of ink in all its fancy manifestations. However, she gives those very spills back to us into packages of intelligent, carefully orchestrated responses that resurges, vivifies, clarifies and invigorates (At least that's what we think we are getting).

No matter how we put it, it's always different from the worlds of thought to the flow in our journals. Something magical happens as soon as those thoughts are penned within her confines. She does something that encompasses us; who we are, where we are heading to, where we stand as individuals, vis-à-vis our world and the universe.

It doesn't say it's a mirror image of our personality (Whoa! I didn't know mum was such thoughtful human being. When we were young she was always playing with us like we were her buddies. She was always playful, never knew she had time for deep thoughts. I tell you! Her journal is freaking awesome. I wish she were still alive)

Nor does it point out the mirage of our dreams, or does it even surrogate the myriad impasse for validation. The least and the best she can do is take our words, sentences, phrases, paragraphs as an ink imprint in whatever form we decide to record it, to be left for interpretation by posterity or hidden in the locks of memoirs as a thread to eternity. Vivre le Journal.