Dear Creepy Guy,
I get up very early and drive in from Burlington. Some mornings, I really want to supplement my thermos of home-brewed Second Cup Paradiso Dark with a fresh cup of Coffee Time coffee. This particular location is incredibly convenient for me. I have to drive right past it on my way to pick up the first edition of the Sun. It's well lit, the guy behind the counter knows my name and that I'm a milk-only gal, and I generally feel pretty safe for popping in and out quickly with my steamin' cuppa joe.
But you, Mr. Creepasaurus, you are wrecking it for me. For more than a week now, every time I approach around 3:30 am, I see you lurking in the doorway, smoking a fag and looking mildly menacing. You stare me down as I crawl past, hoping in vain for you to disappear. But there you stand, every day, directly in what would be my path if I were stupid enough to get out and attempt to go in.
Perhaps you're really a kindly sort. For all I know, you're fuelling up on java before heading out to deliver meals-on-wheels breakfasts. I doubt it. And because you and I shall never meet, I will never know your story. But you're pissing me off, you scruffy stranger. You don't own the doorway so get the hell out of it, and let a professional woman sneak in for a longed-for paper cup full of regular roast, won't you? There is a perfectly good smoking closet inside the restaurant and there's where you're supposed to be puffing on your butt. Please restore my right to give you no more than a passing glance through thick panes of glass as I sprint past you with my cup. Jerk.
Yours sincerely,
Lisa "the chicken with good reason" Brandt