Starbucks, 8:39 p.m. - Diamond Studs and Suburban Girl pull shots, blend drinks and play house

They've turned the music down. Or else my hearing is going. Might be the latter. This is the Starbucks right down the street from my office complex and I've been here every night this week and nearly every day the past year. The music is nearly always rollicking. Yet I can barely hear it tonight.

What I can hear is an abnormally loud timer on an urn of coffee. It sounds like a bomb is about to go off. *tweet* *tweet* *tweet.* Now the frappuccino blender is going. *whirrrrrrrrrr* *splash* *thunk* *slish* Small wonder they don't make the baristas wear those construction-worker headsets.

"Tall latte and a grande frappucino." Cursory "Thank you." At least they said thank you. It was a woman in a banging white leather coat and a lepoard print bag. She's got blonde hair in a severe up-do. Her male companion is clearly just along for the ride. Arm candy in the Brach's pay-by-the-pound sense of the word. He's not said one word and looks like a brother or a cousin. He's not a boyfriend. Nor is he in full control of his faculties. Khakis and a black T-shirt. They are taking forever at the coffee condiment bar.

There is another table here. Three men with guns. Sheriff's deputies if I read the logo right. I'm trying not to stare, because I don't want to get took down. Now they're leaving. Gonna come back with a warrant for my hard drive. All of them were extremely fit. Generally speaking, I'm not a fan of the public display of weaponry. I'm not a fan of weaponry in general. If you're gonna kill me, you really need to do it with your bare hands.

Oh, they're grinding coffee again. It must be that time of night. I love the smell of coffee. You get a clue that something is going on from the sound of the grinder - then the smell wafts over. Complex and deep and filling up the head with a lovely aroma that evokes notions of Sunday mornings in a huge white clapboard house beside the beach with pancakes and the newspaper all over the table and nothingness spreading before you in the hours to come like a comforting rug that waits to wrap you in loving embrace. Ohhh. I need a rich, rich, rich patron to support me in the style to which I could so become accustomed.

The sheriff's deputies must have requested the music be turned down, because now that they're gone, the jazz is kicking up. Some soul singer is giving a what-for about her life, her troubles, her man. "It's all right. It's all right." There's drums and a sax and maybe some jazz piano.

I'm not positive, but I'm fairly sure the baristas are flirting. One is most definitely in high school. Deliciously yummy and on my "good barista" list - he already knows my drink - with those ghetto diamond studs in each of his enormous white-boy ears. The other barista is a fairly typical suburban white girl - although I really don't know how "typical" she is - she's the one who wore the "slutty lesbian schoolgirl" costume to a Halloween party.

Diamond Studs has taken about five minutes to open a bag of coffee beans to pour into the espresso machine. Now they're arguing over how to best clean the credit card swiper on the register. Apparently, the preferred way to do that is to take a dollar out of the tip jar, fold it and run it back and forth through the credit card swiper a few times. Good to know. Good to know.

The whole night routine of cleaning, prepping and processing for the next day has such an order.

Diamond Studs is 19. Suburban Girl is 21. I can hear them arguing from the other side of the Starbucks. It's a good thing I'm the only person here. It is a match made in Starbucks heaven. Come for the coffee, stay for the floor show.

I just realized that my mouse doesn't work too well on the special Starbucks tables set up like chess or checkerboards. Lovely. I love this particular seat. I guess I'll have to move tomorrow night. That's what I get for buying the Wal-mart special el-cheapo mouse.

Whatever songs are on rotation in the Starbucks channel on XM Satellite Radio, the baristas know by heart. They're singing along now. "Cha-Cha-Cha."

I don't know what this song is, but is so happy and peppy. Makes me feel warm and happy all over.

That grinder is still running. The coffee smells so good.

Hmm. The night shift is responsible for dumping out the tip jar. If you're gonna grift while working at the Starbucks ....

My time is up. Thank you.