I did that wandering-in-circles thing at first, looked at prices glued under fancy coffee cups while waiting for the bathroom, wondered why a broken French Press was still on display. I came here for mental quiet and possibly the opening lines of a poem. I have no room for more food and my coffee cup is still half full. I contemplated apple juice, the least expensive way to earn a place to sit at Starbucks.
The only truly available seat was in the corner, across from a young couple reading their respective Kindles. At first I didn’t want to sit in what felt like their bubble, but neither did I want to share a long table where I’d have to stretch my power cord practically over my table neighbor’s lap. I eventually sidled over to the corner space careful to not clunk my computer bag into one of the readers’ elbows.
Once I set down my stuff, I realized that I had the best seat in the house as I could put my feet up. I don’t remember the last time I used an ottoman or wrote in bed or otherwise sat so comfortably. Instead of the deep thoughts that often come when I am solo in a cafe, I am pretty much only thinking, “Oh, this is very nice.”