I was running late on my way over to Oakland last Saturday morning when I realized I had a decision to make: arrive on time or even early but bleary-eyed as well, or take a chance and pop into the Starbucks near the BART station and run the risk of being a few moments behind schedule.
If you've ever met me in the morning before I've had my coffee, you know what I did. It's self preservation, is what it is.
Starbucks was jam packed. Seven-day-a-week business people crowded in front of me, rattling off orders half a mile long. A mother with her children in a stroller promised hot chocolate to quiet her brood. An aging hippie asked me the time, and the baristas were foaming, frothing, and steaming as if their lives depended on it.
I got my order in: a tall lowfat latte, whole wheat bagel and some cream cheese. I gave them my name, and waited to be called. A bit impatiently at this point, I was really flirting with completely upsetting my entire timetable. Finally they called my order. I grabbed it, ran down into the station, and hopped on the next train. Just in time!
I think it was in the transbay tunnel that I finally relaxed enough to look down at my coffee and think to myself, "Why would anyone ever order a grande? A tall is super big." I perused my cup. And that's when I saw it: Kelly, written there plain as day. Kelly, who ordered a grande, nonfat latte. And whose coffee I had stolen.
I sincerely hope they made her another one.
Kelly, I don't know if it means much, but I'm sorry.
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