Descriptive Story The Ambrose Café walls speak. The deep blue welcomes customers, who stop by for iced coffee and 75¢ apples. A mini basketball hoop hangs next to a wooden shelving unit filled with for-sale ceramic dishware. The counter holds an espresso machine, rows of flavored syrups, and loose tea leaves in jars with handwritten labels. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows line the storefront. And he presides over all, a quiet lion in a grassland safari reserve. He towers over the two baristas’ baseball caps, and folds his thick arms over his chest. His gray t-shirt announces “wrigley field drinking team,” and boasts a picture of a frothing beer mug. The cotton stretches over his belly, and a braided black leather belt cinches under a small paunch. He wears faded workman’s jeans with extraneous pockets and loops. Rectangular, black-rimmed glasses rest below a shaved head. He ambles about the café and jokes with the baristas. He counts change, pours glasses of iced tea, and rinses the dirty dishware bin. He watches the customers in the café, notices their personal effects – a notebook and pen, a laptop, a boyfriend – and looks away. One heavy arm rests on a ledge, and his glasses turn toward the window. A customer enters. He greets her with a loud “Shannon!” and fills their conversation with meaningless niceties. “There you go, that’s the spirit,” he says, and smiles. His teeth explode from behind dark lips, and glow. Shannon leaves, and he explains her story to a barista. His voice cuts the air from ten feet away, and the barista lowers his own in response. He drifts back to the window. He empties the tip bucket, counts the clinking change, and watches the world. He doesn’t control the people outside; their meandering strolls lie beyond his reach. But inside the Ambrose Café, as customers sip their iced Chais, his eyes drink in his domain. This territory is his, for now. The blue walls know better.
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