This morning, before driving an hour down to Oregon to visit with my parents, I stopped by a Starbucks drive-thru and ordered a tall cup of coffee with cream. It was one of those pleasant waits when the sun warms through the open sunroof, Richard Stoltzman enchants through several speakers with Mozart's Clarinet Concerto in A Major, K. 622, my Starbucks card has plenty of money on it, and I'd remembered my own cup (thereby getting a discount). My sunglasses were clean and the red arrow pointed to the "F" indicating a full tank. There was even a joyous anticipation of getting to spend time with family.
Can't get much better than that, right?
Unless...
Unless--when you drive up to the window--the barista leans out and says, "The gentleman in front of you paid for your coffee."
A W E S O M E
No, I don't know who it was. The car was black, and that is all I can remember about it. It was already gone by the time I pulled up and she told me.
