Variety Chairs

October 23rd, 2023

Variety Coffee Roasters, on 7th Ave and W 25th. Fourteen tables with black chairs crammed in the seams between. Chocolate leather-back booths and espresso splattered on white tile. Maple syrup drenched wood frame skeleton. Whale bellied ceiling and thick window panes fogged from the clash of winter wind and tea steam. A static stereo and cider in the fall. Laptops and journals, conversation and contemplation. New York City pockets these spots, a lung on the street corner, where people inhale and exhale out the doors all day long. I could sit here from open till close, as long as I have a cappuccino and my little green book. 

At each table I sat, a girl forged from curiosity and a crippling caffeine addiction.

The fourth booth from the door, a girl begging for a friend.
By the pastry case, a girl who understands how vital a song can be.
Thirty minutes before close, a girl from Brooklyn who didn’t understand the crucial difference between the A-line and the C-line.
Sharing the first booth with a stranger, a girl who recognizes lonely.
At the round table by the milks and sugars, a girl who doesn’t know she will build a life with the little blonde.
Distracted at the community table, a girl who thinks she’s a shit writer.
At her favorite table, a girl who thinks she’s Patti fucking Smith.
At the table the little blonde likes, a girl who has a shackling secret.
The booth below the last window, a girl who feels like a woman.
The lone table by the entrance, a girl whose knees click. She’s so tired, but energetic in the legs.
At the table by the bar, a girl writing love letters, choking on truth.
Little blonde’s favorite table, a girl giving in.

Many visits in between.

Today at her favorite table, A woman, a writer, a lover.

To the little blonde: I bet you didn’t know that I frequent your spot this often. After that evening we met for coffee, I couldn’t help but crave Variety and the high I felt talking to you.