A Connie Converse-ation
I know this is obvious, and we all have these, but I just had a lovely five-minute chat with the barista at my local Blank Street coffee shop in Brooklyn.
Which, as a quick aside, I'm naming the place specifically because it's the first coffee shop I'm kind of devoted to — a tiny, nondescript coffee shop chain, but they let dogs in, make the best oat latte I've ever had, are always super friendly, recently unionized, and it's become part of my early morning dog-walking routine.
Anyway, I've never seen him in there — I usually chat with the female and non-binary baristas who are often by themselves opening shop at 7a.m., and I'm like, "Are you by yourself in here? That's not right." Like an old overprotective grandma. (So Blank Street, get your shit together on that front.)
Back to this guy: super tatted-up, fuzzy wool hat, ripped black tee, and rings in every portal — like a 1985 goth, only he wasn't born until probably 1998. Before he talked to me I realized I unconsciously pegged him as aloof…