I love the way my hands smell when I come home from work at Starbucks.  They smell like milk and coffee.  Of course.  But more.  Like the store itself, all the people inside, the very atmosphere.  

I love the warm feeling it gives me hours after I’ve been off my shift.  I might bring my hands close to my nose later in the day and all at once I’m filled with comfort.  

I can hear the gentle internal humming of the espresso machines, the hissing, fizzing milk being steamed, the harsh, pounding whirring of the coffee grinder, the trickling, gushing, flowing, dribbling liquids all pouring out.  

These have become beautiful sounds to me.  

And the layout of the store has become like my home parlor.  I can see every corner, every scratch, every polished, worn surface that makes it up.  All the memories of hectic morning rushes; thumping pitchers, warping jugs, splattering foam, and racing hearts; of steady mid-day streams; soaking grinds, soapy dishes, ringing register, and catching breaths; of slowing afternoon lulls; crackling trash bags, powdery mocha and cream, crumbling pastries, and peaceful sighs; and of quiet, contemplative evenings; swept floor, faintly, silently, fading lights and sounds; a falling hush; are present in the store.  

I have felt the sun rise and set from behind the glass walls, have experienced the hopeful, fluttery pre-dawn feeling as well as the sleepy stillness of post-dusk.  

It is a wonderful place.  

But the only reason I find such things as running milk and brewing coffee so wonderful is the people.  

The customers have their charms and their smiles, yes, but the people I a talking about are the baristas; the crew.

I can see Trish, a woman-in-charge, controlled and steadfast, as angelic as she is hardened, smiling as she relays a story from her life to me. 
I can see Joan, the manager, carrying a notebook, eyes always searching, always working, never finished, giving me instructions on new protocol, maybe even letting herself grin at a passing joke.  

 
I can see Ben, ever-confident and hard-driving; a teddy bear beneath the layers; laughing as he teases me.

And Biruk, the superman, is rushing around, mind in a million different directions, beaming at me as he leaves a trail of havoc behind him.  

  
Steve rolls his eyes, snarking and wincing, but patiently working diligently; he is a sweetheart disguised in a jaded, hard-worn exterior. 

Jessika is endlessly pouring drink after drink, steaming and stirring as she grows closer to every customer and partner with her stories and smiles. 

Angelo chuckles merrily, punching in orders, charming everyone with both his flamboyance and genuineness.

Amy enters the store silently and glumly but leaves in effervescence and piles of cheery laughter; she is competent, strong, smart, and a real goofball.  

Tuan rolls through the place like a trail of fire, cleaning and working, his hands like two sticks that when rubbed together create sparks; he is funny and full of life, though slow to warm at first.

Laurel is a cheeky woman with an edge of sarcasm and a center of sweetness who works the evenings with a casual air befitting a place like Starbucks.  

  
I could go on forever about each person’s eccentricities and loveliness.

Trish says that everything happens for a reason.  My reasons for applying for the job at Starbucks were few.  My reasons for staying are many, and at times undescribable.  Hopefully, in a year or two when I have to leave, I’ll be ready, but I couldn’t imagine leaving now.  

  
Starbucks, my Starbucks, has become like my other family,

my second home,

my sanctuary from solitude, school, stress,

and real life.  

  Because it isn’t like real life.  It’s a show.  

And I always loved a show.