In the Permanent Collection

Recovery Coffee

18 RECOVERY COFFEE On Sunday morning, smokers gathered outside the coffee shop offer weekend temptations for discussion. The twelvesteppers resisted with varied degrees of success. One asks, “Have you told your problems how big your God is?” Less reflective sinners have given in wholly, returned with irritated faces. Inside, one woman wants to recount a visit from her mother-in-law while another tries to explain the hard-living girlfriends of her boyfriend’s bandmates. A man in a T-shirt that reads “Get your ass to church” orders a cup of tea then adds a splash of coffee and some cream. We’re all recovering from something. I’m getting over (what else?) a bad love that makes everything seem like direct revelation—songs, especially, but also bits of conversation. I overheard, “If you don’t want a haircut, stay out of the barber shop,” which, of course, made me feel shorn. Yesterday the water was tea-brown in the little subdivision lake. The line of the shore, the shape of a kiss, the lips, a leaf, the metaphor lost now. The specials board offers Minestrone and a soup called Happiness (really!) made with yellow squash, lemon, and basmati rice. Through the window I watch a cardinal in the spare sidewalk tree, 19 orange beak chattering in her dark face. Behind her, a moving van that has been parked in the same spot for days gathers tickets in pink envelopes. Some teenagers have a dog who holds so fiercely to his rope toy that he can be lifted off the ground, his body hanging, tensed, his eyes bulging but matter-of-fact. As I swing open the door to leave, I almost hit a woman who ducks her head like a shy girl. I want to tell her to buck up, stop looking apologetic, but I know what it’s like. I’m sorry for my rush to get out, for how clumsy everything is. I know the older we get, the longer it takes to recover. ...