The same old customers come into the store each morning. I see the red-bearded man with a bald head and tribal earrings in his earlobes as he sits in his wheelchair, talking with the other old men at a long oval table. He’s tatted from his neck on down to his shins. A lot of older men have tattoos these days. And I always used to wonder how people would age with ink all over themselves.

There’s the man who looks Italian with slicked hair and a gold Rolex type of watch who always sits at the end with those men. He bridges his fingers a lot and gesticulates. He seems to be the talker among their tribe.

And then of course, the old lady with her dog. She dresses extravagantly each morning when she steps inside the coffee shop. I’ve never bothered to ask her what she’s drinking, not that it matters too much. She wears huge designer sunglasses, so huge that they cover half of her forehead. She always wears expensive knitted sweaters and cloth pants, always with a smile.

The same woman comes in every day to talk to her, with the red hair, always with a smile too.

I know the baristas’ faces by now, but not their names. They’re all fast-paced, busy beavers with the customers’ drinks. They all smile even when they’re not helping anyone.

I see the nice Chinese man.

I see the older man, who looks like the district manager.

I see a younger man with a mustache who’s new to me. Where did he come from?

And where’s the exotic barista this morning? The one who wears the big glasses, who looks Pacific.

Most of them know me by name by now since I come here every morning. It’s a refuge from the isolation of home.

A lady in a motorized wheelchair has just rolled in. She wears a surgeon’s mask, a flower hat, and Crocs. She’s talking to a homeless man who can’t stand or sit still. I see him every day, too. He has some sort of disease. I don’t know what it is. I smile at him and say hello. He wears a lot of different clothes, and it makes me wonder where he got them from.

You need a code to use the restroom. Most days it’s one two three four. But they change it up.

I order the same things every day: a cold brew and a cheese Danish. And I sit here for hours and observe people. Most of them are so friendly. The town is friendly. They open doors for each other. It isn’t like it was in Los Angeles.

The baristas give free coffee to the homeless man.

The woman in the motorized wheelchair has her drink, and she and the homeless man continue talking.

I don’t know where I would be without this place. Probably somewhere, walking aimlessly, as I need to stay active to let my anxieties abate. I feel safe in here. I leave my laptop at my table to take a break outside and not worry a thing about it. People don’t steal here. It’s almost a utopia.

I hear them call out names for the people whose drinks are ready.

Where did the lady in the wheelchair go? She’d disappeared while I was deep in thought.

More dogs have entered the shop. They play with each other. The old lady with the big sunglasses holds her white dog by its purple leash. I don’t know its breed, nor do I know any of their breeds. Random people, such as the Italian man, pet the dogs as they come by. I don’t pet the dogs. I feel like I’m not permitted to. They don’t belong to me. It’s like if someone parks a motorcycle and I hop on and squeeze the handles. Maybe it’s a little different. The old lady’s dog has sniffed my deck shoes before, and I don’t mind one bit. She would pull the dog away like it was bothering me, but not at all. I welcome any dog. I welcome anyone in here, my home away from home.