It's friday morning sometime between 7 and 8 o'clock. I'm steaming three different types of milk and pulling shots of espresso for five drinks at a time while cars continue stacking up in a line that seems to spill out onto emerson avenue. The whirring of blenders and griping over the freshness of day-old pastries threatens to break my concentration. Yet i am a rock. I delicately dance with a merciless beast which growls, screams and spews boiling hot liquids in my general direction. She does not tame easily. In fact, i'm quite certain that the tiniest careless move could rile the beast and the legions of barbarians who line up to taste of her torrid teet into an appocolyptic frenzy.
Suddenly, it was as if everything had turned soft-focus and a razor-sharp thread stiched with one haunting question had pulled right between my eyes. My stomach turned and i heard the words as i shouted them to anyone who would answer, "Did Henry Winkler die or was that just something i dreamed?"
"I don't know," was the only response i would receive.
"I don't know?"
"I... don't... know."
Suddenly, it was as if everything had turned soft-focus and a razor-sharp thread stiched with one haunting question had pulled right between my eyes. My stomach turned and i heard the words as i shouted them to anyone who would answer, "Did Henry Winkler die or was that just something i dreamed?"
"I don't know," was the only response i would receive.
"I don't know?"
"I... don't... know."
