Starbucks

This morning I started to go through withdrawal, I could feel it, itching in my skin, the every movement of the air around me.  It beckoned.  Gazing at the ceiling I felt no solace.  This once comfortable couch now felt as if it had been filled with needles. I hadn’t every gone through this before, I could see her, I could see veronica’s eyes looking at me, questioning what was going on inside of my head.  I could almost hear it.  I had to say something, let her know what was wrong.  I started to sweat.  How was I going to explain this insanity to her.  Just let it out, I thought. She loves you and will understand.

“I really need to go to Starbucks,” the words seemed to find their own strength as they blurted out.  I darted down to the painful embrace of the couch, hoping she couldn’t see me, couldn’t judge the words I had confessed to her.

“Ok,” she started to pack her stuff.  It had worked.  She understood what I was going through.  The longing.  We jetted out the door and started the endless trip to procure the treat of ages.

My love must have sensed my pain, my sorrow.  She offered to drive.

The traffic, it surrounded me, it held me, it suffocated.  Everyway that I looked there was more and more people.  It was an attempt, from some higher power, some divine providence, it told me that there was no way, nothing that I could do on this day to earn the right to drink the nectar that the gods had placed on Earth to reward man on his daily treks through pain, and Oprah.  I would get there, I would take this suffering.  Regardless of how many red lights, drawbridges, or insane men deciding to walk across a busy lain of traffic stood up to our journey, I would make it.  The pavement melted as the wind blew hopes that shattered on the ground, a sign promising my goal just ahead.

Veronica swung quickly into the parking lot, eager and quick both our eyes darted to the rows and rows of cars, all boasting something we did no yet have, a spot and possibly coffee, imported daily from foreign lands were men speak in elegant terms, using metaphors as we use napkins; everyday tools that may be thrown out with no thought.

Then, a ray, a hope, a shinning example; an empty spot next to the door.  Rays lay dashed on the black man-made ground as a motorcycle seemed to rise out of ether to proclaim that spot as their’s!  Despair rejoins us both as our quest is prolonged once again.

“Screw this!” she bellows to the world and double parks our panic ridden hearts behind a mini.

I marched proudly into the store, with the pride of a new father returning home with a new infant.  I had made it, I had arrived, the goal was mine.

I just had to wait through a line the size I had only witnessed once before in my life, that of which waiting to leave “The Cat in The Hat,” an movie that I had managed to get into for free, yet still made a point to walk out of.

A amazing slew of mutants speaking in tongues of languages not heard in this land stood before me, demanding that they be served, in only the matter that they requested, and only the matter that they requested.  The amount of confusion mounts as one returns, saying that they asked for the drink to be sweetened, and it clearly wasn’t, what was going on.  Another mutant asked that their hot drink be served cold, all of us begging to be awake.

My turn comes, my girlfriend spouts out my order, her knowing it by heart by this point.

Then we wait.

And wait.

Relief comes at at last, and then I spend the rest of the day writing this.