Sherry's Sanctuary
By Lashell Hoover

It was sweltering for April, like a summer day, but Sherry craved the smell of a dark roast after spending hours sorting her home office files. She was a no frills kind of woman, shying away from fancy creamers and frothy foam. All she wanted was a dark, aromatic cup of coffee like they serve at Dunkin' Donuts and perhaps a light bite to eat. As a treat, she decided to try someplace different, some cozy place where she could relax in her tank and ratty work jeans without bumping into too many of her neighbors. Having lived in Dundalk, Maryland for the past eight years, she knew too well that it would be almost impossible to go to one of the more commercial spots like Denny's or Friendly's without seeing a friend or a friend of a friend. Even the smaller places like Northpoint Diner would be nearly full, particularly now, during the late afternoon. The last thing she wanted to do was talk.

After a quick Internet search, she found a Cafe less than two miles from her home. She drove down tree-lined side streets that twisted and dipped. The houses in this section of town were less cookie-cutter, much grander than where she lived. Finding the street with ease, she smiled to herself; however, her joy was soon abated because the directions were wrong. The address was a private residence, not the Alley Cat Cafe. She smacked her hand against the dash in frustration, turned the car around and headed back to the main road. Glancing in her rear view mirror, she blinked at the woman with the mocha roots, crow's feet and dark circles under her eyes. Snatching her sunglasses from the visor, Sherry surveyed her surroundings looking for an alternative place. Were it not for the traffic she encountered as she waited to turn onto the main road, she would have missed it. From her vantage point, it looked like an empty storefront. When she drove up to the building, she squinted at the makeshift cardboard sign taped to the outside of the glass. In thin, black lettering, the words "restaurante Honduras cafe abierto" were scrawled, but another sign inside blared in objection, "Sorry we're closed." To add to her confusion, she noted that the lights were on inside.

Just as she was debating whether to leave or further investigate, a plump, petite, blond in large glasses unlocked the door. Sherry greeted her and sauntered inside. Not more than six steps in, she stopped in confusion. Apparently, she was standing in the cafe because there were half a dozen tables, for two, surrounding her. Should she sit at one of the tables, she wondered, or see what was on the other side of the massive striped wall? Noticing her discomfort, the petite blond asked if she could help while she gestured at some menus on a table in a corner. Supposing she should look through the menu, and still unsure as to what to do next, Sherry decided to try the hot wings with her coffee. Hesitantly, she told this to the woman who started walking toward the opening in the wall. Sherry followed on her heels. Just through the opening was a bar style counter and several very high stools. This side, the restaurant, was brighter than the other. The lighting was better and the back door was open letting in fresh air and sunshine. There were: two pool tables, two arcade games, a love seat and a television. From any spot in the room, you could watch the cook prep meals. It was like being in two separate buildings that were connected by mismatched blue and gray speckled tiles and walls painted the color and pattern of the Honduran flag.

Sherry climbed up on a stool, feeling somewhat guilty, since the cook had to roast in the heat to make her paltry order. While she prepared the wings, the pleasant young woman, chatted amicably. During the conversation, she told Sherry the blond was the owner and that they had been open for six months. The atmosphere was soothing and casual, somewhat like visiting old friends. Sherry could picture herself seated at one of the tables in the front, writing in her journal, or tucked into a corner of the loveseat with a cup of fresh brew, while others played pool at seventy-five cents a game.

When her order was done, she made a promise to visit again and headed to the coffee station in the alcove between the two rooms. On a blue counter were: a solitary coffee pot with less than half a pot of coffee inside, a mammoth container of Folgers, a few Styrofoam cups with lids, a sugar dispenser and a container of powdered non-dairy creamer. Although the aroma was enticing, she was uncertain as to whether she wanted coffee badly enough to drink from a pot that had undoubtedly brewed for some time. In the end, the need to hold a steamy cup in her hands was more powerful than her reservation, so she poured a small cup, shaking in the creamer with abandon. She was a little light with the sugar since there wasn't anything to use for measuring or stirring. From the moment she first saw the pot, she knew that she wouldn't be drinking it for the flavor.

Placing the carryout bag on the floor on the passenger side, she found a straw in the glove compartment and swished the muddy concoction about in the cup. Beads of perspiration formed on her forehead, as much as from the steaming cup as from the scorching weather. Still, she sat with her eyes closed letting the fragrance envelope her like incense on an altar. Already, she was planning her next visit.