Go Darke

I stare (for longer than is probably deemed polite) at the chocolate chip muffin behind the glass countertop. My brain is having a decidedly Pavlovian moment while I wait for my coffee. This used to be my staple go-to when things had largely started going sideways on me. But I’m ‘good’ now, I say, even though the sirens song is particularly strong this morning.

I turn and notice a heavy set, bearded, behemoth getting out of his truck. He’s wearing a camouflage bomber jacket and sporting a Glock on his thigh. On the side of the truck is emblazoned ‘Argon security’.

He orders coffee and we stand together.

‘Would you consider yourself an “Argonaut”‘, I venture casually. He gives me a look like I’m mentally challenged. I point at the truck, ‘Argon’ I say, as if to underscore my point.

He gives me another look that I interpret as ‘are you high?’ God I wish I was…

Maybe they’re named after the inert noble gas? Although that makes no sense to me. I feel that I’m loosing this particular battle however and that he is no mood for chit-chat. I sigh. ‘Nevermind’. I guess were not going to be discussing the modern warriors penchant for tarn-fleck over golden sheep’s wool.

He’s ordered a caramel Macchiato¹. I judge him… albeit silently.

[1] It wasn’t exactly this. But words to this effect.