I went to Starbucks today - a Saturday - and the patrons there were wearing their Saturday clothes. The weather was expected to be nice so there were flip flops, shorts, and spandex workout wear, people who hadn't combed their hair yet and weren't planning to, and people who could have been wearing their pajamas but were polite enough to get dressed first.
The exception to this scene was in line in front of me: a young woman, tastefully dressed as if she was on her way to work in a professional office. She wasn't severe; she wasn't wearing a suit. She was in a beautiful, flowered chiffon dress in colorful hues, four-inch-heeled pale green patent leather pumps, with a lemon sorbet colored cardigan sweater. She was about 30 years old, if I had to guess, and her blond hair was tied into a neat - not tight - bun. The most severe thing about her was her shade of lipstick.
She stood out from the rabble.
As it happens, I took a phone call in the time between when I placed my coffee order and when it was purveyed. As I chatted, the young blond woman received her order and, so, I assumed the next coffee proffered was mine. But, I wasn't sure. I twisted the cup around on the counter so I could see the markings that would identify its unique combination of milk, foam, and - what's the other ingredient? Oh, yes. Coffee.
The blond was very polite, not wanting to interrupt my cell phone conversation, and said, "I'm sorry, I think that's my coffee." I removed my hand, still chatting, as she turned to me, the devil now possessing her sweet face as she said, "DON'T TOUCH THAT!"
I was afraid for my life and fled from the store.
That could really happen in Seattle. And, it did, really. Right up until the point where I fled.
I got my coffee first.