by Julie Pelc

I usually go to the Drive-Thru Starbucks on Lincoln Boulevard , even though there is one literally across the street from my house, on Navy Street . At Drive-Thru Starbucks, Damon, a beautiful black man with dread-locks greets me every morning at the window,

            “How are you today, Julie?  Non-Fat Vanilla Latte, right?” This is Los Angeles intimacy: if a man knows your car, your name, and your caffeine preferences, he knows your soul. I relish every detail of this daily interaction; every morning I bemoan the $3.45, claiming I can’t afford this habit as I hand Damon my credit card.

            Last month, Drive-Thru Starbucks needed restoration and was closed for several weeks. I began to frequent Navy Street Starbucks, and became acquainted with Kelly, who, upon seeing me every morning at our prescribed time, would begin to pour the Non-Fat milk into the steaming shots of Espresso in my Grande-sized paper cup. 

“Navy Street Starbucks is so much faster in the morning,” I inform Damon, wanting him to feel sad, or wounded, that we would no longer share our daily morning greetings and that I was leaving him. He shrugged, and turned back to the register.

            This week, I offered to bring my therapist coffee, since I would be stopping at Starbucks on my way, anyway.

            “What do you drink at Starbucks?”  I ask him.

            “Why do you ask?”  He replies.

            “I could bring you a Starbucks when I come in the morning.”

            “Why would you do that?”

            “So I’m not drinking coffee alone – besides, it’s rude for me to be drinking something in front of you without offering you one, as well.”

            “Why?”

Okay, so I know that the whole point of therapy is to analyze every interaction, every conversation, every intention. But this seemed crazy. I decided never to mention coffee again; to drink the whole cup en route to Brentwood , or else leave the remains in the cup-holder of my car.  I would systematically avoid systematically analyzing myself.  Good plan.

But some part of me never quit asking him to be a whole person; asking him to be someone who needs caffeine, someone who could answer questions without asking another question in return, someone who might actually want to know me. It’s not enough that Kelly knows my order and Damon knows my car. It’s not enough that I can sit on the couch and sip coffee with my therapist watching me; listening but not responding, present in the room, yet seemingly absent from the conversation. I want him to want coffee, too.

“Your Starbucks is slower than mine,” I chide him, as I enter his office with my Grande Non-Fat Vanilla Latte. I was running late and had decided at the last minute to get coffee in his neighborhood, rather than mine.

“Hmmm…” he responds, not responding.

“Yes, the line is longer, and the baristas are slower. They don’t know me, and they don’t know my order,” I continue.

            My therapist suggests that my critique of “his” Starbucks is deeper than just a casual reference to the speed with which the barista near his office in Brentwood prepares my beverage.   His Starbucks is slower than mine. 

There is something for me inside that paper cup that goes beyond steaming milk, sweet vanilla syrup, and two shots of Espresso. I love the brown cardboard sleeve hugging my cup; encircling it round, like the two were meant to be together, keeping each other warm. I love knowing that Kelly has my drink started even before I walk through the door. I like knowing that they know me; I like the intimacy of our moments together, every morning.

I tell my therapist that I am leaving him; leaving therapy – and he seems surprised, completely unaware that I have been unhappy with how things were going, that I wanted to talk to someone who didn’t feel so very absent. I am crying. The fifty minute hour is over.

“It seems we’re in the middle of a conversation,” he comments.

“No, I think we’re at the end,” I reply. I collect my purse, throw my crumpled tissues in the trash can, and say goodbye. With the money saved in therapy bills, I may be able to afford a bigger Latte each morning.