Twenty years, when I lived New York adjacent, there was a spot on Eighth Street near Astor Place where you could look at a Starbuck’s, turn to your left and see another Starbuck’s, and turn to your right to see another Starbuck’s. It was like you entered some kind of vortex. There was a Starbuck’s in the Container Store when I worked there. When I visited Shane in Binghamton, the only place we could go was Starbuck’s. In the early nineties, it was a magical, distant place I’d only hear about in whispers, but by the late nineties, it was like mold.

It’s been years since I’ve been to a Starbuck’s. (Except for in airports because they give you no other options.) I prefer the smaller places that don’t bust unions, and they don’t serve you coffee that tastes like it’s been on the burner for a month. I found one a short distance from my place, and I’ve started going there regularly.

I bring one of my three sketchbooks and something to draw and color with because I work best in noise and the occasional distraction. I don’t see a lot of repeat customers, except for one.

The cafe consists of some booths and two couches with tables in front of them. I always sit in one corner of the couch. On the other corner is always a customer, about my age and not dressed in athleisurewear like every other woman who patronizes the place, and she is there every Saturday morning. She tends to sit on the other side of my looong sofa, and she spends all of her time drinking her iced beverage and reading her phone.

When I saw her this past Saturday, I thought about saying hi (not ask her out), but I got the yips. I’m naturally shy, I’ve got a mean resting bitch face, you can’t tell I’m not dating just by looking at me, and the most important part: I am pathologically afraid of being a creep.

I’m large, with hair that doesn’t stay nice and a beard that grows back as soon as it’s trimmed, my inability to start a conversation, and the aforementioned mean resting bitch face. I assume the sour looks on faces I see on the sidewalk is because they’re disgusted with me, as opposed to the fact that nobody ever looks happy on the sidewalk. This is called confirmation bias.

So my therapist and I talked about it, and she pointed out that if she were creeped out by me, she wouldn’t sit on the same sofa, over and over. She may not want to be a friend, but she’s definitely not disgusted with me.

My homework is to say hi, and if she is friendly, tell her my name. Maybe even get hers. I see my therapist once a month, giving me four Saturdays to get past the yips.

Wish me luck!