Smooth Jazz

As I walk into the coffee shop, I am immediately engulfed in a gust of warm air that causes the goose bumps from the chilly winter afternoon to fade from my arms. The warmth, which causes my skin to sigh happily in relief from the freezing outdoors, is accompanied by the strong smell of coffee beans and chocolate. Breathing in the rich aroma, I stop just inside the glass door to allow my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. After blinking several times, I am able to look around the room.
The coffee shop⎯lit by modern lanterns hung from the tiled ceiling⎯contains several round tables, barely big enough to sit two people. Around the tables are black wooden chairs with curved backs. In two of the corners of the room are large armchairs. Next to the armchairs are little wooden side tables, and atop these tables are miniature lamps casting a dim glow over the chairs’ dark leather.
Near the left wall is a marble counter, where a friendly-looking girl in a green apron stands behind a cash register. Muffins, croissants, cakes⎯many treats lay behind the cool glass on the counter. Behind the girl in the apron are rows and rows of white coffee mugs lined in shelves on the wall. Below them are the silver coffee machines, patiently waiting for their orders. In front of the cash register is a stack of CDs by unknown jazz artists and a small basket of untouched bananas. There are countless drinks to choose from: chai teas, iced coffees, and caramel macchiatos are a few of the options displayed in elegant script above the coffee machines. I order a white chocolate mocha, my preferred drink, and cross the dark tiled floor to take a seat in one of the armchairs and wait. The chair is as smooth as the jazz music softly playing throughout the room. As I sit, I continue to look around the coffee shop.
The walls are a deep orange color, like the color of the sky the morning before a storm. Decorating them are several abstract paintings, reflecting the modern and classy atmosphere of the shop. A counter holding milk, sugar, straws, and napkins stands to my right. Along the back wall is a bookshelf holding ground coffee, tins of tea, and travel mugs for sale. Looking closer, I see numerous plugs scattered around the room, many with laptop cords or phone chargers attached.
Although the mood in the coffee shop is relaxed and calm, many sounds envelop the room in addition to the smooth jazz; the coffee machines whir, bustle, hum, sound, swirl, swish. The sound of typing is abundant as a couple people stare intently at their laptops. A few people sit with friends, quietly chatting about their days. The buzz of the heaters is ever present behind the soft music. The girl in the green apron calls my name when my drink is ready. Approaching the counter, I reach for my drink and fold my hands around the warm cup. Raising it to my lips, the chocolaty liquid slides into my mouth, settles on my tongue, and slithers down my throat. My entire body warmed, I return to my armchair and turn my attention to the other people in the coffee shop.
A woman walks in wearing simple black pants and a pale blue button-down. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun. She carries an official-looking white coat over one arm and holds a number of files in her hands. Quickly walking to the counter she orders a cappuccino and sits at the nearest table. Pulling out her glasses, she opens one of the files and her lips begin to move silently as she reads it over. She has a pager resting on her belt at her hip, and when it beeps she quickly checks it and rises from her table. Collecting her drink, she speeds out of the coffee shop, having no choice but to answer the call and rush back to work.
Another person who catches my eye is a fairly young girl sitting at a table near the middle of the shop. Accompanied by her unusually small computer, she simultaneously types and reads. Occasional frowns appear on her face, and judging by the way she ruffles her hair and purses her lips as she works, she is tackling the enormous load of schoolwork her teachers have assigned for the night. Just for tomorrow she must complete English and Spanish and math and history and physics. Her easygoing attire suggests that she is an average college student; her flannel shirt is slightly rumpled and she holds two textbooks in one hand. Every once in a while, her lips turn up into a slight smile and her eyebrows untwist from their worried position; this occurs when she completes one of her many math problems or Spanish conjugations and becomes just a small step further to finishing her work.
Sitting in the corner of the coffee shop is a tall man in a suit who, in contrast to the student with the minuscule computer, is facing a large, sleek laptop. He alternates between furiously typing away and gulping his coffee. He wears narrow black glasses and his hair is slicked back with gel. As he types, I can assume he is working on an important case that may decide whether he receives the promotion that every other employee on his floor is competing for. His silk tie and expensive shoes suggest that he is already well off, and wishes to receive the promotion simply for the sake of winning the competition, not because he is in need of the money.
The three hard-working individuals I observe add to the sophisticated environment of the coffee shop. As I sit, taking my time with my mocha, the other people in the shop gradually pack up their belongings, take their last sips of coffee, and leave. It is getting late, and I can see the sun setting through the spotless glass windows. A boy comes out from behind the counter to sweep the nonexistent dust and trash from the floor. As the last jazz song comes to a close, so do the work hours for the employees, and they begin to prepare the coffee shop for the end of the day. As they flip the chairs onto the tops of the tables, I sigh, rise from my leather armchair, and head for the door. As I go, I take one last breath of the rich coffee beans and cocoa. The coffee shop⎯chic and sophisticated, modern and trendy, warm and inviting⎯is my favorite place to go on a cold winter afternoon. Entering the frigid February air, I close the dark glass door behind me with a satisfying “click.”

-Emily S