two hundred. nineteen.

When people appreciate the raucous hilarity of subtlety, I just die.
Right? You can smile at someone, even a total stranger, and just know that you both are inwardly laughing at the same thing and you float like a balloon because you've harnessed the power of a secret joke.
No? Just me?
I shared a secret joke with a customer today.
We'll call him Bernardo. He could pass for a Bernardo. Or a Luigi. I hope you have a mental picture of what that means.
He was in sometime last week at the same time the writer who clears his throat [incessantly] was in.
The writer left first, and this customer came up after he walked out the door.
"Have you ever noticed how often that guy clears his throat?" Bernardo asked me, almost incredulous.
I laughed. "All the time."
"Yes! Like twice a minute! Doesn't it drive you crazy?"
I shrugged.
"He's so nice. I don't mind. It is funny though."
He shook his head at me. "I mean...how many times did he clear his throat. It seriously must have been at least twice a minute. Maybe once every ten seconds."
"Let's count next time," I said.
He laughed.
"Ok, next time we'll count," he said as he was leaving.

That next time was today.
"Medium Americano with room," Bernardo said when he came in, not noticing the writer sitting with his wife at a table.
I made it and handed to him. He walked over to the counter and began pouring cream in.
The writer cleared his throat.
Bernardo's head snapped up, then craned around looking for me. When our eyes met he had to duck his head because he had already started laughing.
He waited four more throat clearings, stirring his coffee and laughing, before walking out the door.
"Have a nice day," he said with a sly smile and holding his hand up. It was both a wave and the number 5 for how many times the writer had cleared his throat.
Well played, Bernardo.

Twice in the past week I've been called an old soul.
I'm aged by a love for old music and old things. I'm aged by heartbreak and loss. Aged by literature and fierce joys. I've aged a hundred years more by the time the leaves in the tree have stopped rustling in the dark this evening.
With all of the strings on my fingers there are still things I forget.