Good Boy, Fido.

Fido, 1812 21st Ave. S., Hillsboro Village.

Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and brunch.

My husband has a serious addiction to books.  He insists it’s not a problem, that he has it all under control, that we are not going to have to construct a shelter out of them someday when our money runs out because of his insatiable appetite for them.  I don’t believe him, and a morning spent at BookMan/BookWoman only deepens my conviction.  While he’s luxuriating in the Philosophy section, I tell him I can’t take it any more.  I’m leaving.  For coffee.

I dash across 21st Avenue and get a few angry looks and car honks as I weave among the waiting traffic.  There is always so much traffic on this street, so much road rage.  I vow to avoid the fray; there has to be another way to get here.

I head toward the people lounging at bistro tables along the sprawling windows of Fido, underneath a sign directing patrons to a nonexistent “Jones Pet Shop.”  I walk through the door and am ambushed by the bustle.  It’s the kind of place I’m sure I will grow to love but that intimidates my need for caffeine almost right out of me.  Everyone has a place, or a person.  But all I have is a headache.

I consider dashing back across the street, knocking the books out of my husband’s hands, and dragging him back over here with me, but I decide that my timidity might fade with a little time and a lot of caffeine.  I get in line and stare at the menu on the wall.  I’ve worked at two coffee shops in my day, and I’m well aware that a favorite pastime of the barristas is watching the customers’ eyes glaze over and mouths fall open as they try to discern what they are wanting.  So I resist the urge; the line is long and getting longer by the second.

I decide to play it safe.  “Coffee, please?” is all I offer to the casually cool young man behind the register.

“Coffee?” he replies.  “Regular coffee?”

I nod, nervously.  “Just coffee.”

“What size?”

Size: the holy grail of coffee shop embarrassment.  Is it a tall, a small, a medium, a regular, a double, a single?  I glance at the menu and try to keep my mouth shut.  “Medium?” I ask for permission.

He tells me my total and takes my money.  He hands me a mug.  I’m too nervous to move.  He points to the self-service coffee station.  “I just… I just…” I stutter.  He smiles.  “I’m new!” I insist.  He keeps smiling.

Better luck next time, I tell myself, as I find a seat under some local art I decide I want.  My husband comes in, book in hand.  “How’s the coffee?” he asks.

I smile.  “Really good.  Also, we’re getting this.  We need us some friends in high places.”