Sometimes I crave that coffee shop life I used to lead, the erratic schedule, the strangers and friends coming and going, the smell of new books and old, drowned beans, the folk singers, chess players, immigrants, gossip gatherers and solo studiers, the painters, sculptors, writers, anxious students and relaxed retirees. I used to make a game of guessing what each one would order--large dark roast or half-caf soy latté with a shot of vanilla, red wine or white--and I got pretty good at knowing the types. I’d slip my favorites a little extra chocolate in their mochas or put some extra flair into their foam. Now I'm on the other side of the counter, occasionally, like a stranger who never inhaled cocoa powder or finely ground espresso beans, who never shot two-hundred-degree water straight onto her stomach and kept on monitoring for a perfect crema while laughing at a lonely man’s jokes. I make money now, instead of happiness, and listen to copy machines instead of coffee machines, my life more stable, my health insured and my family supported. I never drank coffee when I made it for others; now I pay someone else to make my medium roast happiness, black.