Blind Faith 3.5
The coffee shop was busy, even for a snowy Boston Christmas Eve. The world outside the windows was a whitish-gray, muted and bitterly cold. Inside, the fire was blazing, people were chatting and laughing and the air smelled of Christmas tree pine needles and coffee.
We were always busy, and had been for the five years we’d owned the shop. I was proud of our business, how we knew most of our customers by not just their name, but the names of their friends and pets, where they worked, and of course, how they liked their coffee. With its warm wooden panelling and comfy seats, our coffee shop was a cross between the one in Friends and the bar in Cheers.