Little Miss Three-Hour Coffee-Camp

Lyrics

Hello, table.
My corner table.
You're mine until two o'clock.
The transaction was clean.
Nine-fourteen AM. A Tuesday.
One small latte. Oat milk.
Four dollars and seventy-three cents on the card.
A silent lease agreement.
For the spot by the outlet.
My little wooden island.
My whole world for the price of a cup.
And the MacBook Air opens with a whisper.
And the ceramic cup, now cold, is my flag.
The logo faces out. Proof of purchase.
This is my office.
My quiet corner of the world.
The hum of the fan, my only colleague.
The waiter, a ghost I don't have to see.
It's eleven thirty-seven now.
The foam has collapsed into a sad little ring.
Marco, I think his name is Marco, has cleared the table next to me three times.
He brings me water I didn't ask for.
His eyes do the math. The cost of this seat.
A couple hovers, two cappuccinos warm in their hands.
They look at you, my table. They look at my empty cup.
I just stare harder at the spreadsheet.
Column G needs my full attention.
And the MacBook Air stays open, a shield.
And the ceramic cup, bone-dry, is my flag.
The logo faces out. My rent is paid.
This is my office.
My quiet corner of the world.
The click of the keys, my industry.
The waiter, a ghost I don't have to see.
At home, the silence is too loud.
At the office, the noise has names.
But here... it's just a hum.
A perfect, anonymous hum.
I'm not hurting anyone.
I'm just borrowing the space.
The wifi is strong. The light is good.
This is what a third space is for, isn't it?
One-fifty-eight PM.
The battery icon is red.
Time to go.
I pack the cord first. Then the notebook.
I leave the cup. A little monument.
A thank you note he can throw away.
Goodbye, table.
See you tomorrow.