So I walk into Starbucks.
Already, mistake number one.
It’s not a coffee shop. It’s a lifestyle temple.
There’s music playing that sounds like a cat whispering into a synthesizer.
Everyone smells faintly of ambition and vanilla.

The girl behind the counter—probably 19, speaks with the confidence of a TED Talker—
She gives me that smile. You know the one.
Like I’m her dad’s friend who still uses AOL.

I don’t, for the record.
But I do know how to log into it.
Still counts.

She chirps: “Welcome in! What can I get started for you today?”
Started?
Started?
I’m already three meetings deep, one existential crisis in, and I’ve been up since 4:47 AM worrying about a mysterious toe pain.
I’m not looking to start anything. I’m looking to pause reality in a recyclable cup.

I just want coffee.
Fuel. Life juice.
Brown-bean broth.

But now there’s a line behind me and I’m standing under this glowing, backlit menu—
It looks like the Dead Sea Scrolls… if they were curated by Pinterest baristas.
I squint. Try to read it.
It’s in—what? Espressolatin?

I panic.
I point.
“Uh… just coffee?”

She smiles like I’m precious.
“Sure! Did you want a blonde roast, a Pike Place, or a dark roast?”

Blonde roast?
That sounds like shampoo.
Pike Place—I thought that was a fish market?
Dark roast… okay. This one I know.
That one’s seen things.
That one’s lived.

I say, “Dark roast.”
She beams. “Great! And what size?”
I say, “Medium.”

And here’s where it all comes crashing down.

She tilts her head—like I just asked if they accept goats as payment.
“We have tall, grande, or venti.”

Now look…
In what world is tall the smallest size?
Tall is literally the opposite of small.
I glance at the cups behind her. They all look the same.
I mutter, “Grande?”
Because it sounds like it can hold enough regret to get me through my inbox.

She says, “Perfect! Room for cream?”
Finally! A question I understand.
“Yes. Little room.”

She nods, taps away like she’s inputting launch codes, and hands me a receipt with more digits than my Social Security number.

$4.35.
For drip coffee.
I remember when gas was that price and we rioted.

“Your drink’ll be ready at the end of the bar.”
The bar?
What happened to the counter?
I’m just trying to caffeinate, not order a Manhattan.

I stand awkwardly between a guy ordering something with oat foam and a woman explaining that her dog prefers his puppuccino at room temp.
I check my email.
Mistake number two.

They’re calling out names like “Zaylee” and “Brixton.”
Someone orders a “triple upside-down caramel macchiato with oat milk, extra whip, and two pumps of optimism.”
I think that’s also available as a TED Talk.

And then—finally—they call a name.
Not mine exactly… but close enough.
I take the cup. It says Mark.
My name is not Mark.
But in that moment… I feel like a Mark.

I take the cup, say thank you, and cradle it like it contains the secret to inner peace.
Which, in a way, it does.

I sip.
Hot. Bitter. Familiar.
Tastes like mornings. Deadlines. And questionable decisions.
Just how I like it.

One sip.
And the world softens.
Not fixed. Not fabulous. But… manageable.

And sometimes, that’s all you really need.

I nod to myself.
Walk out.
Victorious.
Confused? Absolutely.
Over-caffeinated? Eventually.
But I got my coffee.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at Inkblotz—stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.