You see a familiar gentleman from across the coffeeshop towering over the condiment station. Stirring your spoon around the inside of your large cup, you watch as he pours a waterfall of sugar into his large "to go" cup. As he raises his arm higher and higher, the arc and size of the waterfall grows and you suddenly notice that you’ve stopped breathing. You wonder for how long. "How sweet does he need it?!"—irritation rises from your waist up through your torso into your cheeks which you assume must be flush. "How sweet does he need it!!?"—you become aware of the high-pitched noise your spoon is making as it scratches roughly against the inside of the cup. Doubly irritated, you continue to swirl the silver spoon against the porcelain. "I can take it as long as you can," you think to yourself—determined. His arms lowers slowly, careful not spill any sugar, and then he places the sugar down on the counter. You stop stirring. He takes a black stir stick and begins to mix what must be closer to a sugary cement than a drink. As you raise your cup from is saucer and take a sip your eyes never leave his lithe back. Your coffee isn’t as sweet as you had thought. How could it be after this? It needs more sugar. Carrying your cup by the saucer underneath, you rise and walk to the condiment station. He turns and you make eye-contact. "That’s a lot of sugar," you say. "You were watching that?" His voice is more nasally than he might think. Maybe he knows. He reaches his hand into his brown corduroy pants and produces a business card. It mentions improvised theater(a group called Next Best Thing that you’ve never heard of but vow to seek out) and a group called The Portland Fiction Project(a website is listed which you’ve only seen on the bumper stickers of old beaters). As you begin to pour the sugar you can’t resist the urge to raise your arm higher and higher.
