The Enlightenment
I am reminded of a regular at the second coffee shop I worked at when thinking about this age of literature. He was older, maybe in his fifties or sixties, and of a small stature but always immaculately dressed in crisp button-up shirts, ironed slacks, and a checkered blazer that was at least a size too large. His round glasses took up most of his face and his eyes were twice the size due to his lenses. Every Monday and Wednesday at precisely 4:55 pm he would come in and ask for a decaf Americano (a hot black coffee without caffeine for those unaware). The first few times I made his drink he would always watch the process like a hawk and ask repeatedly if it was decaf, if any sugar was added, if it was heated to the right temperature. While at first it was nerve-wracking having him breathing down my neck, it was something I came to expect. With his drink clutched between wrinkled fingers, he would walk over to the empty window seat and stare out into the busy parking lot with an inten
