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Whiling away the time in Starbucks

     I need to put some words on the screen. I need to get back into the storytelling mode of funny happenings that were never meant to be funny but turned out to be when the happening came to an end. Good or bad. Serious or funny.

     So what's happening now? Beats me. I'm just sitting here at a round little table with an empty chair on the other side of it and me on this side of it, trying to make a funny story out of nothing much. The coffee cake was good. Hit the spot. Usually Starbucks pastries and baked goods are not that good. Bland. No texture. But the coffee cake was flaky and properly crumbly and fully cinnamon-y.

     The guy in the round brown chair a few feet away hasn't changed his expression since I got here, twenty minutes ago. Hasn't moved a single body part. Oops. He just turned his head to the right—I guess to see what was going on over there at the pickup counter. Nothing was going on. No pickups, just the baristas talking back and forth.

     I only mention this guy because of his T-shirt. Across the front of it, in medium block letters, is "ASK ME ABOUT MY." And beneath that you can't miss the "GIRAFFE" printed in huge block letters beneath the "ASK ME ABOUT MY."

     Should I? Ask him about his giraffe? He obviously didn't bring it with him—unless it's waiting out in his car, which I hope is a SUV or the giraffe wouldn't fit. Unless it's sticking it's neck out the window. Do you think he really has a giraffe or did he just think this T-shirt was hilarious and would make everyone laugh—or more likely, stare at him?

     The guy has an iPad in hand. A red one that contrasts nicely with the grey T-shirt with the big black letters. I guess that's what kept him immobile for so long—the iPad. Watching something on YouTube maybe, except there‘s no sound coming out and he doesn't have those things in his ears with a wire running down to the iPad. Maybe he's an aficionado of silent movies. Do they have those on iPads or do you just have to turn the volume way down?

     Time to go. Three-thirty. Time to get Paul a mocha latte, decaf, iced, tall and get home by four o'clock so Lupe can move on to better things. See ya later. . .

     So I walked out to the parking lot and casually looked around. Didn't see any long giraffe-type necks hanging out of the SUVs, F150s and assorted sedans in the lot. He must have left it at home. In Africa?

     Well, if there's no giraffe around, it's time to head home. I turned toward my freshly washed, waxed, polished and Black Ice scented automobile, reaching for the keys in my purse, and something caught my eye. No, not a giraffe. Wish it had been. It was something white—a big white splotch on my freshly washed, waxed. . .you get the idea. There maybe wasn't a giraffe anywhere around, but somewhere up in the sky, there was a big bird hovering over the parking lot, looking for shiny objects to bless.

     Just another day at Starbucks.     

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