The first time I see her, I think coffee.
Not because we're in the middle of a coffee shop and everything around us is coffee, the scent of espresso, the sound of keurigs and traditional coffee makers brewing liquid energy,the light chatter and clicking of keyboards, the baristas crafting in the background the drink that makes the world go round.
No, I think coffee because my barista turns around, a few wisps and strands of hair coming out from under her scarf, and calls out in the calmest voice I might have ever heard in my life.
"Order for Maya!" She sets the red cup down on the counter and and pushes her strands back under her head*, sighing deeply.
"Can't believe it's only 9 in the morning." She says, smiling softly. Her skin is a soft mocha color, her scarf black like pure espresso and her eyes are soft like lattes. Her voice is as smooth as the coffee machine pouring macchiatos out behind us, with a hint of vanilla, I think, and I let my lips turn up in a small smile, as I peruse the menu behind her head.
For what Padma? You get the same order everyday.
"So what can I get you, Miss Padma?"
My eyes turn back to the barista, whose name tag reads Wataniya.
"Sorry," she says, waving her hands, "If that came out weird. I just, you're the big journalist Padma Kapoor right? From The Times newspaper. I loved your piece on women of color in the arts. It was so... inspiring," she says, slightly drawing out the last part. I smile even wider and clear my throat looking behind me, to see if I'm holding up any impatient patrons.
No one in sight.
"Thank you, Miss... Wataniya?"
"Call me Niya."
"It's a piece that I enjoyed writing and I'm glad that you liked it too. It's important to express ourselves in unconventional ways." I brush the stray hair that comes from my ponytail back under my headband. Niya nods quite a bit, even while she talks to herself.
"I agree completely. And it's so nice to see more people in our own community so accepting and forward of talents that we share. I really appreciate seeing more poets of color."
I nod my head, grinning wider. Niya pats her cheek and her mouth drops open in an O shape.
"I'm so sorry, Miss Padma-"
"Call me Padma."
"Padma. I was so busy rambling I never took your order. What can I get you?"
"I just want a peppermint mocha with whipped cream. As hot as possible, please."
"Coming right up, Padma. Thank you for entertaining my rambles."
As she makes my coffee, we chat a bit more because of the lack of people in the shop. The morning rush is over and the early noon people are starting to settle in. Niya tells me a bit about herself. She's been working at Qahwahti for 3 years now and is also a student at the local community college. She lives with her best friend Saja, who works full time as the manager at the mall. She loves to read, especially journal pieces which is how she knew me on the spot and hopes to become a journalist after graduating. The rest of her family lives back home in Sudan.
"Maybe I can read one of your pieces some day," I say, my arm pressed on the counter. I'm always mesmerized by how quickly and efficiently some baristas work. Her fingers are soft and nimble as she works the grounds into the small keurig cup, adding some small yet savory spices such as cardamon, pepper and cinnamon and giving the cup to the machine to be turned into brown gold. She does all this so manually and with such routine while still talking to me, as if she's riding a bike down the street. It's a comforting feeling.
She has a homely energy. Her voice is warm and inviting and her constant smiles are reassuring that things will turn out ok. It's nice. She's a physical embodiment that things will be ok.
"How often do you come here Padma?" Niya asks me, as she puts the finishing touches on my drink, the whipped cream canister fitted in her hand.
"I come every day actually. I've been doing so for the past 3 months. Why is this the first time I'm seeing you?"
"Oh, I used to work in the backroom often. I only recently got promoted to being a barista. It's really nice out here."
"Oh really?" I say moving my elbows from the counter. "You work really well. You must have been doing this for a long time."
Niya shrugs, putting a lid on the cup.
"Nah. One day of training, one day of work and it's not so bad. Besides, coffee is just that great. It's... nice."
I grin and nod my head. "It is really nice. There are really poetic ways to describe it, but it is-"
"9 in the afternoon." Niya smiles, handing me my cup. I smile. I suppose she read my article on the perfection of Panic! At the Disco.
"And your eyes are the size of the moon."
Niya gives a small giggle. "Have a good day, Padma. I hope I can see you again."
"Well... " I say. "May I see your sharpie?" She hands it to me and I extend my other hand for her.
"May I have your hand?" I say. Niya blinks and hesitates for a moment before extending her hand out, placing it in my palm. It's warm and feels soft like warm cotton, like a mitten on a cold day.
My face warms a bit and I think hers does as well, but it's not apparent under her mocha skin.
Taking the pen off the sharpie, I press it on the top part of her skin, drawing a chubby 4, followed by 1 then a 0.
410-354-7677.
After I finish with the last seven, I trace a small lotus next to the numerals.
"Call me? Maybe when you get off and we can go grab lunch? I can also give you some stellar book recommendations?"
Niya smiles slowly until her grin is so wide it dimples show up in her cheeks. She's absolutely adorable. She nods feverently.
"Yes, yes that would be absolutely amazing! I will totally text you, as soon as I grab my phone."
"Great." I hand her back the marker and lift my coffee cup up. "I'll see you, ok?"
"For sure." Niya says.
As I leave the cozy shop, I take a quick sip on my drink and smile.
It's a lot warmer than usual.
