Article March 30, 2009 ISSUE

PEACE IN THE COFFEE SHOP

BY PAMELA COOK

In the town where I live, there's a small coffee shop that's a regular destination for bicyclists who ride up from New York City. Although it's tiny, with only a dozen chairs around a few small tables, it's not unusual for there to be 30 or 40 people crowded into this tiny space on a weekend morning.

One Saturday, I was sharing a table with several cyclists. We were jammed in, shoulder to shoulder, each of us huddled over his or her own small area of the table. Before long, the woman nearest me bumped the table with her knee, sending a large cup of hot tea sailing in my direction. I instinctively reached out to stop it, and as I grabbed the cup, the hot liquid spilled out onto my hand and wrist. As I mopped up the mess with some napkins, I felt intense burning and saw that the skin on my hand and wrist had turned bright red. The woman who'd bumped the table seemed completely oblivious to my dilemma, and although she offered me a tissue, she didn't really seem to be aware of what she'd done.