First Order
I walk into Starbucks at 7 am, starving after a nineteen-hour flight from Mirpur to Boston. As I pass through the golden doors that magically open as I step close, I am surprised by the casual ambience of the coffee shop. Men with unshaven beards, dressed in tshirts and pyjamas with flip flops stand in a queue. A few women are wearing makeup, heels and freshly ironed dresses. They glance from the counter to their watch, from their watch to their phone, shifting on their toes, eager to grab a coffee and rush to the urgent tasks that await them. There are numerous people in workout clothes, sweaty but energetic, eager to embrace the day. I struggle to grasp their lack of concern for dressing up sharply before leaving the house. Then I line up behind a man who seems to have forgotten how to shave a decade ago. He taps his foot on the wooden floor and hums along the rhythm of the music blaring through his headphones. He is wearing grey trousers and seems to have rolled right out of bed into Starbucks. I wonder if he realize he’s outside. People are watching, I have an urge to tell him. He smiles, I nervously grin and lower my gaze as if someone just caught me shoplifting. Don’t stare, I remind myself. A few steps ahead of him is a teenage girl with curly black hair that rest just above her shoulders. She is wearing a red tank top and her arms are covered in tattoos. I struggle to make out what the tattoo. My eyes are fixed on her arms. Don’t stare, don’t stare, I remind myself before looking away.