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The smell of used books and coffee beans fills the air. A gust of wind blows through the

top half of the always open front door and sends a slight pine needle scented chill down the

spines of the patrons, but a quick sip of their coffees and teas warms them again. The shop

resonates a sense of peace, tranquility, comfort, and wonderful used books. It is the kind of place

you could sit for hours reading a novel and drinking a coffee. And sitting drinking coffee is

exactly what I am doing as I sit on a couch in a corner hidden by bookshelves of biographies and

children’s books.

My feet rest on an old table piled with books, save for where they have been pushed aside

to make room for an ancient chess set. The pieces lie with the white side clearly the victor and

the black pieces scattered dejectedly on the wooden tabletop like fallen soldiers. I pick up the

white queen taking her from her place holding the black king in check. My fingers run over the

smooth shape and pause on a chip on her domed base. I return her to her board to reign, once

more, over the tiny, fake marble world of chess.

The couch on which I sit is one of those types that would not be out of place in a

student’s first apartment. It indubitably formerly resided in the tiny living room of Joe and

Chris in their small house across the street from our coffee den. Here sits a couch that has been

slept on, eaten on, practically lived on. The beloved sofa has had so much coffee spilled on it

that the now brown couch could have been any color to start with.

The sun filters in through the street-level windows drawing my eye to the front window

behind me. The window is filled with Halloween decorations with a giant fake spiders web, the

orange, plastic skeleton, Mort, and holiday appropriate books. I smile as I see one of my favorite

childhood book of horror stories, and I browse the other titles, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman’s

Bad Omens, other Pratchett books featuring Death as the main character, a recipe book for

pumpkin pies, a documentary on Jack-o-Lanterns, and some large old book about witch burnings

in Salem.

I look up and wave to Joe, my friend and favorite Barista as he starts his shift. He chats

and smiles enthusiastically with his first customer while he fixes her drink. She smiles and

laughs as he energetically describes his most recent favorite author. Joe is one of those people

you cannot help but smile with and laugh with when he is talking with you. But alas her coffee is

ready and she sets off between the rows of Science Fiction and Romance to a small table at the

back of the store.

Watching the customer buy her drink reminds me I have yet to finish mine, and I take

another glorious taste. The taste of white chocolate and coffee fills my mouth with hot sweet

liquid. No one can make a white chocolate mocha, with extra foam, like Joe can. My mocha is a

cup of coffee you do not just drink but experience every sip. The liquid warms my throat, my

stomach, and my very soul as each careful mouthful is taken.




Suddenly Chris turn the speakers on and the speed drumming of Dragonforce’s

Revolution Deathsquad fills the shop drowning out the people’s voices and sounds of the espresso

machines. Speed metal is a music that few adults can understand and would be fitting background

music to a sci-fi novel based in Mediaeval Europe. Joe runs to turn it down and makes a hurried

apology to the bemused patrons. My eyes travel back to my little corner of the shop.




I look around at the posters up on the wall above the book shelves. They are posters I

know as well as the ones in my own bedroom. I look up at the happy little turtle happily reading a

book, Garfield encouraging children to read, Harry Potter diving on broomstick to catch a snitch,

Martin Luther King speaking his famous “I have a Dream” speech. I spend a joyful moment

looking over my favorite large wall decoration, the giant map of J. R. R. Tolkien’s Middle Earth.

They give the already homey shop a feeling of comfort and seem to say “sit down, read a novel or

two.”

I pick up one of the books on the table, looking at picture of ancient dragons and other

mythical foes being slain by tiny knights in shining armor as they attempt to rescue pink clad

princesses. Finishing my scrutiny, I return the book to its place on the table and move my hand

back to that glorious cup of perfect coffee. The contents have gone almost cold and I sigh

drinking the last glorious sips, before leaving my little corner of the shop and taking off to the big

world, full of not enough books and certainly not enough hot coffee