Coffee Shop

Her life is miserable and poor.

She doesn't beg yet she sits outside the coffee shop on Lonsdale alone and hungry. Her lips are nicotine stained; a brown-yellow lipstick lining the inside of her lips. All her possessions she keeps in three small black bags at her feet. Every night she sleeps at a shelter on the downtown Eastside and, in the morning, she packs her belongings to carry with her through the idle-long day.

I approach her table near the entrance to the coffee shop. Do I hide behind my sunglasses and ignore her? She won't recognise me from church, I'm pretty sure, and I can just pretend that I don't see her.

She looks up. I smile. She smiles too and we say hello.

I step inside. I'm five minutes early and my appointment hasn't arrived yet. I step outside and ask, "Would you like a cup of coffee?" Her smile is wide. I apologise that I've forgotten her name. "And I yours," she responds. We exchange names and I ask how she likes her coffee. Cream and two sugars.

I place her order; I place mine. I hesitate and look at the tray of muffins. I choose the healthiest chunkiest one with bran. This coffee shop has the very best muffins. I take the coffee and the muffin to her outside. "Thank you, lady. God bless you."

She invites me to join her. I decline: my appointment will be here any moment.