Starbucks, Vero Beach, FL

On a warm, overcast New Year's Eve, there's no one, besides myself, sitting in the coffee shop...oh wait, just kidding...a young dad just sat his two year-old daughter down at a table so she can eat a chocolate cookie the size of her face.

Who?

Twenty minutes later, a couple people have decided to sit and kill time, including an older man in the comfy chair next to me. His salt and pepper hair, mostly salt, dons a very neat comb over and thick, white sideburns reach nearly to his mouth. He crosses his leg over one knee cradling an iPad with a thick, gray cover. He wears crisp white Reebok's with gray trim, khaki shorts and a navy polo shirt with a pocket on the front. His legs have virtually no hair on them, but a few scratches line his legs from what look like dog. He sits in the chair for no more than 15 minutes. I don't think he even finished his drink. He carefully folds up his iPad, grabs his Starbucks gift bag and his drink and walks out to his shiny, silver Ford Taurus. He opens the backdoor first, sits the bag and the iPad in the backseat, and shuts the door. He gets in the driver's seat and takes another two or three minutes to prepare for the drive. As he finally pulls out and drives away, I see a political bumper sticker neatly placed on the left, bottom corner of the windshield.

The Story.

John grew up in the Mid-West. That's where he learned to live his life--in a precise order and that's how he expects others to live theirs as well. After he was all grown, or so he thought he was, he went to a state university. He didn't involve himself in the pettiness of Greek Life or Student Affairs; he just made a few close friends here and there and quietly received his degree in exactly 4 years. He moved to Chicago, and began working as an accountant for a law firm. He stayed there for the thirty years. He watched as the firm grew from two associates to fifteen. He accounted for every cent, watched the firm's worth quadruple, and rarely, if ever, made a mistake. At 28, he married a pretty girl he had known in college named Elizabeth, but he called her Lizzy. She had majored in art history and was now a curator at the art institute. He loved how Lizzy could look at a painting and see a beautiful story when all he could see were slashes of paint and crooked lines. He watched the city grow and wane, ebb and flow. He loved Chicago, but knew, when the time came, that he would retire and leave the city to the young. Thirty-five years later, he owns a small house by the beach, where Lizzy still cooks dinner nearly every night, except on Wednesday evenings when they go to the Lobster Shanty for seafood.

Starbucks, Port St. Lucie, FL

Who?

I pull the handle to the woman's bathroom and am stopped short by the tight lock. A few seconds later, I hear it unlock as the door swings open rather forcefully by a petite women. "Sorry, I was just trying to get out a stain," she explains to me in a thick, Colombian accent. "Oh, no problem," I reply back with a smile. I walk out and see her sitting outside the coffee shop facing the setting sun. It's 65 degrees outside and she's wearing a cream peacoat, gray jeans, black pumps with crystals on the toes, and an embellished head wrap holding back her deep brown hair. Her ensemble is hardly the norm you find here in south Florida, let alone in the nothing town of Port St. Lucie. As she punchs away on her Blackberry with a pen in her right hand and a Suduko book in her lap, she has an air about her that makes you realize she's content...and trusting. Without hesitation, she stands up and leaves her silver handbag and coffee on the outdoor table. "This is south Florida, honey." I want to tell her. I watch her stuff for her as I feel is my responsibility, and two minutes later, she returns from the bakery next door with a chocolate cupcake stacked high with whipped white frosting and chocolate shavings. She smiles a sly smile as she checks her Blackberry, someone must be making her smile. She takes off her head wrap and tucks one leg under her, obviously getting comfortable to stay for awhile and let whoever is making her smile continue to do so.

The Story.

Her name is Natalia, and she is not from Port St. Lucie. She was born in Columbia and lived there until she was fourteen. Her mother passed away tragically, and her father decided it was best for his only daughter to live with her aunt in Florida. Centennial High School was worse than any of the Colombian prison stories her cousins told her about. She didn't have a lot of friends. Here, people are close minded to anyone who is not a clone of themselves. They didn't understand why she blared Colombian music from her aunt's SUV or why she insisted on bringing her Colombian cuisine instead of eating the fattening American food served by a lady who looked like she wanted to hurt her. She missed Colombia. She missed her father and older brothers. She missed home...and then she met Michael, and soon enough, she started feeling like she was in Colombia again, like she was home. And now she sits at Starbucks, reading texts from Michael that say she's beautiful, and amazing, and everything he ever wanted, and that he'll be off work soon..."I'll meet you there," he says. So she sits back in the wicker chair, solving Sudokus, and waits for him.