a treat.

 A turn of events, including my roommate losing her wallet, dispensed a small bit of cash into my wallet. It was one of those days when a treat was bound to happen. I had been scoping out this small coffee shop named "Neil's" on the corner of Lexington and 70th and I had a feeling that today would be the day. I passed it on my walk into work and resisted the urge. I only had a few minutes before eleven and a treat is meant to be enjoyed and not rushed.
  I worked throughout the morning, answering phone calls and making appointments. The office is small, but at times I feel like we are in a call center with phones ringing off of the hooks. I learned how to check out patients after their appointments and revisited the importance of providing completely accurate information. The work is not difficult. Challenging would be the best description of my tasks. We are an interesting people. We can be rather demanding and forget how we make others feel. At other times we are light-hearted without a care in the world. My preference would be the latter. It was five 'til one and it was my turn for lunch.
  I hastened to the coat closet to pick up my purse and I was out the door. My light steps carried me to Lexington Avenue and I meandered in. Neil's is a small diner-like restaurant. The entry way is tiny and only allows for one person to enter, or exit, at a time. An old-fashioned counter greeted me just inside the door and I meekly asked the hostess if they served coffee to go. The register she stood behind was old; an antique piece that I was surprised still worked. She punched in the totals for customers and the numbers rolled through until landing on the correct sequence. She smiled as a man approached the register and said with a thick European accent that I would like some coffee to-go. He asked in a similar accent, "you want a cappuccino with sugar?" I nodded and he hurried off while motioning towards a seat at the counter. I slid onto the stool and took a look around. The lady to my right was reading the morning paper and enjoying what looked like a "croque-monsieur"which in French means a grilled ham and cheese sandwich with cheese also melted over the top. She looked up only for a second to acknowledge me and shift her papers but quickly resumed reading. Breakfast pastries filled containers atop the counter. Pictures of famous stars were framed as a border near the ceiling, all authenticated by autographs. Behind the counter, the man worked at his espresso machine to hand-craft my cup. He knocked the used grounds into the trash and poured fresh ones into his mechanism. He steamed my milk to perfection and sweetened the drink with prudence. To finish the feat, he dashed cinnamon on the frothed milk that settled perfectly at the rim. "Four dollars for the lady," he said. And it was worth every penny.
  Treats like these do not happen often. My checking account would scarcely allow it. Every once in a while it is good. Not to mention the pumpkin granola bar I snatched up for a snack complemented the cinnamon in my coffee as if they were sold as a pair. Without a chain or franchise to choose from, I am forced to look for locally-owned establishments in the seventies. I have yet to be disappointed.

Currently Listening: (rain falling on the city; my roommates are sleeping.)