forsyth | Of Coffee and Tailors

"Why are you old and bitter?" the barista asked.

"Time and many enemies will do that to any main, even a tailor," Jack said, looking up at the girl with his wizened eyes.

"Who hates a tailor?"

"We tailors were once a fine and proud brotherhood, with great influence and responsibility. And enemies. There are few of us left, now."

"I thought they had, like, machines to do that now," the girl said.

"Hey, buddy, you gonna move?"

This came from the man behind the tailor, a businessman in a slightly ill-fitting suit. One that had never known the touch of a tailor, only machines and small foreign children. For a moment, it filled the tailor with the old anger, but neither his spirit nor body could sustain it, and it sank back to the bitter coals of futile hate it sprang from.

"You, back of the line," the barista said, pointing at the businessman.

He started to protest, but baristas are inducted to the secret knowledges of coffee, few dare cross them and risk their wrath, so the businessman subsided. "Here's your latte," she said, and handed Jack a cup.

"Thank you, young lady," he said, "My name is Jack."

"Enjoy your coffee, Jack," she said.

Jack sat at a table, ignored by most of the customers, businesscritters who darted around, busy as ants with pointless tasks, idle hipsters intent on the butterfly obsessions of youth. They saw only an old man. But he was Jack, and he used to be a tailor, and nothing could take that away from him.