The best place in New York is definitely a coffee shop in one of the villages. The second you step inside the world seems to stop in its footsteps. The strong aroma of ground hazelnut creeps up your nose and down into your lungs instantly warming your body. This is the reason why I found myself standing in Old World Café.

I close my eyes as I waft in the scent and the atmosphere before approaching the counter. The usual cashiers are there and the usual drinks are being brewed. I rest my hands on the marble countertop and quickly review my order in my head before speaking.

“Hi, can I get a tall black coffee with one of those cinnamon biscottis in a to-go bag.” I quickly ravel off to the red headed cashier.

“Sure thing, that’s going to be $4.79,” she states clearly exhausted.

I slide over my bills and walk over to the side of the counter where many others wait for their coffee to be brewed. Swiftly I pull my blackberry out and look up the baseball scores from the night before praying that maybe the Mets were able to pull through.

“Tall black!” a young man calls out to the anxious crowd of coffee addicts.

Without looking I reach up to the cup keeping my eyes on the article about the Mets’ new defensive strategies. As I begin to curl my fingers around the warm Styrofoam cup I feel another set of finger wrap around mine. I look up from my blackberry to see champagne nails touching my dirt and grime encrusted knuckles. My eyes follow up the mysterious arm to a woman’s face. Her eyes are a dark carmel, her hair a dark brunette wisped to the front of her plaid jacket. A warm smile stretches across her face.

“Oh, I’m sorry- I just figured it was mine. Not too many people just get black coffee anymore these days,” she apologizes releasing the cup.

“Oh, no, please, take it. I’ll wait for the other one,” I assure her offering the cup back to her.

“Really? That’s sweet,” she says as she takes the cup back from me.

“You know I didn’t know many women liked black coffee, I thought it was more of a sweet and creamy thing going on with most women,” I remark sparking conversation.

“Well I guess I’m just not like other women am I?” she laughs. “I like it’s bitterness, it’s an eye opener. And that’s what coffee’s meant to do- wake you up, not used as a dessert.”

“Yeah,” I smile, “yeah.”

“Well, thanks again…” she begins but stops herself trying to find a name to fill the blank.

“Drew.”

“Drew. You’re a very sweet man.” She turns around on the heel of her boot and walks over to the door leading to a world that’s kept on moving.

“You’re welcome,” I murmur, more to myself than to anyone else.