Olivia Paige, by day a convenience store stockist, by night... A PERSON WHO SLEEPS!
Time Girl caught a good few winks of sleep last night, was feeling pretty tired for some reason since yesterday. Got up to the sound of my alarm, and the reminder that it's church today. So I went happily on through the morning, Sundays are always great. Took a while with the comb this morning, for some reason kept finding weird things in my hair. Nothing buzzed except my alarm though.
I went on through the morning, had a great message, avoided all conversation about national geographic, said hi to Mrs. Stevenson, who kindly said hi back. A group of young people I'm slowly getting to know invited me out for lunch. I said that sounds great, what is it? Coffee and fries. I said sounds weird but good. I mean, it can't be worse than jelly-slice-ham-sandwich. So we went out to this place I hadn't seen before. I think they call them hole-in-the-wall restaurants. That's because they have very aggressive customers. But it was nice, the lights were dim (is that so we can't see what we're eating?), the music was surprisingly musical, the people were lovely, and there were no marimbas, bees, or fans in sight. I said what do you usually order here? I don't eat out a whole ton. Usually only half a ton. They said oh we can order for you if you like. I said that would be great. They even paid for me, which was unusually kind.
The whole place I then noticed smelled of coffee. They said that was because it was a coffee restaurant. Oh I said, what is a coffee restaurant? They said it was a restaurant that served coffee. I said ah. But this place was a little different. I mean the coffee I was used to growing up came in a can, and that was coffee to me. But they said oh no you haven't tried coffee until Mr. Marcon has made coffee for you. I said oh fair enough. I mean a regular meal for me is soda pop and something cooked in my oven of the future. I saw the walls, they were lined with coffee. Actually the walls were compartmentalized into Java, Ethiopian, Java-Ethiopian, Ethiopian-Java (which is a completely different thing) and all sorts of different names I haven't seen since ancestry class. The white-mustachioed Mr. Marcon came and selected some from them, ground them, and made them into coffee. Now I can't tell you much about coffee apart from the fact that it comes from a bean, but this coffee did seem good quality to me. I asked them about Mr. Marcon, and they said that he had been making coffee for twenty years, and that nobody had ever disliked his coffee. I said oh well thats impressive. I mean if I go to work with matching socks for a week I treat myself to a block of chocolate.
By then the coffees were sizzling in the background. Is that what coffee-makers do? Or is it fizzling? Or foaming? Maybe that was the fries. Anyhow, the coffees came out, one to every person, and the fries came out, also one to every person. I said is this a regular thing you do? And meanwhile Mr. Marcon was coming near our table to make sure everything was alright. They said oh yes, every Sunday. Everybody started to take a first sip of their coffees, when I noticed that they were loaded fries. In fact, poutine. I said, "oh, so it's routine poutine." At that point everyone spat out their coffee.
Dear Mr. Marcon, you are an excellent maker of coffee. Your expertise towers over my coffee-tins. However, please do not take the fact that I avoid your establishment as a sign of distate. I simply do not wish to inflict marimbas, bees, or exploding customers on you again.