The Spot

The bell over the door jingles when I walk into The Spot.

Immediately, I smell espresso, old books, and whatever incense Fatima is burning this week.

Bobby Brown is playing through the speakers.

Not loud.

Just loud enough to remind me that there was once a time when people made eye contact and slow danced instead of sending each other emojis.

The Spot sits between a vape store and a tax office. On paper, it sounds depressing. In real life, it’s the warmest place I know.

Nothing matches.

The chairs don’t match.

The mugs don’t match.

Half the books look like they survived three divorces and a flood.

And somehow it all works.

Mostly because Fatima works.

She’s behind the counter wearing a head wrap, silver bangles, and those reading glasses she keeps threatening to replace.

She’s humming along to Bobby like she produced the album.

“Hey baby. The usual.”

She doesn’t ask.

She knows.

“Please.”

“See. That’s why I like you.”

A man near the window starts laughing.

“Fatima lying already.”

The whole shop joins in.

Fatima points at him.

“I stay nice.”

“No you don’t.”

“And yet every morning your behind is sitting right there.”

He doesn’t argue.

Because he can’t.

People come here for coffee. They stay because of Fatima. She listens. She remembers things. Your interview. Your divorce. Your mama’s surgery.

That dream you mentioned six months ago and we’re too scared to bring up again.

She remembers all of it.

She slides my coffee across the counter.

“Head up.”

She rolls her shoulders.

“Shoulders back.”

I laugh, but I do it.

Head up.

Shoulders back.

Fatima smiles.

“There you go, baby.”

Then she turns around and starts fussing at somebody else.