Recycled, but With Some Extra Stuff

Paul owns a coffee shop. He works hard, unloading heavy bags of dark coffee beans from the old blue truck that parks in the back lot. His hands smell of freshly ground coffee, pungent and deep, the type of smell you can feel in your chest if you inhale deep enough. He is alone, but doesn’t feel lonely, not really anyway. He has his days where he wish he had someone to come home to, that one special person that would greet him when he walked through the door. He has this wish, but it doesn’t make him sad, only hopeful for what may come.

He has his shop that he pours himself into, and his workers, all young conversationalists making lattes and reaching into the displays with long silver tongs to retrieve a pastry for a man on his way to work. Paul kneads dough for croissants in the back room, his dark wash jeans covered in flour, a dish rag hanging from his back pocket. His regular customers know his name; he is the face of this place. He has a comforting nature about him, and he is just the kind of man you would know owns a hole in the wall cafe just by looking at him.

Paul has a dog at home, one he walks to work every morning with a red leash, checking up on his pet to refill his water bowl and give him a piece of ham if Paul has any extra, bringing him inside to the warm kitchen when it gets cold. Paul pets his dog, scratching behind his ears and placing light kisses on his forehead. His dog has dark brown eyes, just like the coffee beans that sit in bags in the corner. Paul doesn’t have a special someone in his life, but that’s alright. He has his brown eyed dog, his young conversationalists, and his coffee shop, and Paul is happy. This is enough for him.