evolution

The last day of yearbook camp I told the TC editors that I'd make a coffee run. I was in no particular hurry when I walked into starbucks. I held the door for a woman who was walking behind me. It was one of those behind-the-back door-holds, so as to say, come on in, you'll be right behind me in line. As I walked in, I stepped about one foot out of my bee-line to the counter to toss something in the trash. 

Before I could swerve back, the woman quickened her pace and stepped in line, ahead of me. Her foot twitched a little, a sure sign she'd just wrestled with the age-old question: be on time or stop for coffee? Her id had won, most likely by arguing that over-priced sugar drizzled into some probably-burned coffee isn't just a lovely treat, but is essential to survival. 

I know well this war; my swollen neurons have waged it against me many a-morning. 

You'd think I'd have had some empathy, but this cutting in line irked me. My door-holding body language had been abundantly clear. So as I walked over, I stepped firmly in front of her. No words were exchanged. Not even a locking of the eyes. I straightened my shoulders. There. I was in the technical right. Lines are lines. 

I basked in the technical right as I chatted leisurely with the barista and then rattled off a laundry list of drink orders. A Venti this, some Macchaito that, make this one a skinny and this one sweetened, yes room in the Americano, but just a teensy bit...it went on an embarrassingly long time. I was now standing so I could see the cutter's profile, and I watched it fall with each new"-ano" and "-aito". 

I finished. In a defeated voice she ordered her grande mocha. She glared at me and stalked to the bar, where she crossed her arms and stared down the lone barista. I yawned and picked up a copy of Times.

Five minutes later, my coffee tray ready to go, I noticed her again. She was still waiting. I felt sort of sorry.  Apologizing, however, seemed pointless and unsafe. She looked fully capable of throwing the precious mocha in my face. 

It's weird, but she stuck in my head all day. I wonder if she did make it to work on time. I wonder if I ruined her day, and if I ever look like her in the mornings--as desperate and angry. I have no idea why I didn't just let her cut in line. It really didn't matter. I was just in the same mode she was. It's a weird mode, really. It does feel like a desperate push for survival. And that's ludicrous. How did we all got to a place where we feel this primal pull of necessity for five dollar coffee?