[I remember]

I remember you. You don't come here much anymore, but you're hard to forget.
This job has a lot of people to remember but you aren't someone you can
forget easily. Every morning, I get here while the city is still waking.
This is a sunset town, everyone stays out late and isn't in a hurry to rise.
Even now, business men aren't jumping into cars, they'd rather dally late
than deal with the traffic on the bridges at rush hour and the busy trains
downtown. So here we get this slow trickle first thing.

You'd always showed up five minutes after we open, and you're always polite.
You always have so much stuff with you -- a backpack, that guitar, another
bag, too, most of the time. Whenever I saw your smile peek over the espresso
machine, I'd get the tea out, and that one brightly colore mug left from
when the shop first opened, not the plain white we have now. Always the
bathroom first, then back out and into the table hidden back behind the
counter where the cream and sugar live.

You always smiled for every little thing, thank yous on the way out and
after you get more water for your tea. 

Mot people don't linger, they just stand impatiently in line and run the
moment they have their latté in hand. You'd sit, and when you watch people,
you really watch. Most of them never see you, even though you've two chairs
and all your things, like you're a part of the furniture here. 

I changed shifts so I could work Sunday, after I filled in for a coworker
and the coffeshop was empty, for nearly an hour before everyone else started
lining up for drinks, and you got out that guitar.