Coffee Shop Seating Has Turned Me Into A Bad Person

The thing about being a regular is that you start to recognize the other regulars. And then you start to hate them a little bit.

Not hate-hate. Just that specific brand of low-grade irritation reserved for people who are doing the exact same thing you’re doing, except they got there first.

I’m standing in line at my coffee shop (my coffee shop, thank you), doing that casual-but-not-casual scan of the seating situation. You know the one. Eyes sweeping the room like you're just people-watching, totally unbothered, definitely not mapping out your territory like this is the last watering hole on earth.

There are exactly three good spots in this place. Three spots with the holy trinity: desk space, outlet access, and enough distance from the bathroom that you don’t have to hear the door slam every ninety seconds.

All three are occupied.

Of course they are.

Stranger #1: Water Bottle Girl. She's got her laptop open, a full reusable water bottle (the kind that holds approx. one gallon), and that settled-in energy of someone who just got here and plans to stay until the sun sets. Maybe longer. She might be moving in. I wouldn't put it past her.

Stranger #2: Two-Monitor Guy. This man brought a whole setup. Laptop, external monitor, noise-canceling headset, the works. He's either running a startup or playing Elden Ring (Sims? I don’t know anything about gaming). Either way, he's not going anywhere. He probably has a lease agreement with that table.

Stranger #3: Pen and Paper Lady. She's writing longhand in an actual notebook like a romantic lead in a period drama. And she’s drinking from a ceramic mug. Not a to-go cup. A stay mug.

She’s my target.

Not because I have anything against analog writing (I respect the craft), but because she's the only one who might be human enough to actually leave at some point. Water Bottle Girl is dug in like a tick. Two-Monitor Guy has squatters’ rights. But Pen and Paper Lady? She's mortal. She'll finish her coffee. She'll finish her thought. She'll pack up her Moleskine and leave.

Probably.

Maybe.

I order my Vietnamese coffee—iced, extra sweet (because I'm making good choices today) and try not to think about the fact that dairy and I have a complicated relationship. The kind where it says "You'll be fine this time" and I say "okay, I believe you" and then we both regret everything an hour later.

But Vietnamese coffee is so good. And I'm already buzzing just thinking about it. Pretty sure there's cocaine mixed in with the condensed milk, because I haven't even taken a sip yet and I can already feel my thoughts moving at 2x speed.

The barista hands me the drink. I take a sip.

Oh.

Oh no.

It’s perfect.

Worth it.

I find a seat on the couch. There's a small table, big enough for my coffee cup and nothing else. It's comfortable. Fine. But it's not the spot. It doesn't have the outlet. It doesn't have the desk height that says "I'm doing serious work here." It says "I'm scrolling Instagram and calling it research."

I pull out my laptop anyway. Open a document. Stare at the cursor.

I should be writing.
I’m supposed to be writing.

Instead, I'm texting my friend about nothing. Updating her on the seating situation. Sending her a play-by-play of Headset Guy’s decision to pull out a second laptop. (Who needs two laptops? What is he doing?)

My phone buzzes. My friend responds with an emoji and full agreement—a second monitor is doing too much. I fire back a meme. She responds immediately. Then again. We're in this together now, two people pretending to work in two different locations, united in our dedication to doing anything but the actual thing. Simpatico in our self-sabotage.

This is fine. This is productive.

I glance up.

Pen and Paper Lady is still writing. Her mug is still half-full.

Two-Monitor Guy leans back, satisfied. Water Bottle Girl has not moved. I know because I checked. More than once.

I take another sip of my Vietnamese coffee. The buzz is kicking in now. My leg is bouncing. My brain is doing that thing where it generates forty-seven ideas per second, none of which are useful.

I should be writing.

Instead, I'm calculating how long it would take for the dairy to betray me. Debating whether it's creepy to stare at Pen and Paper Lady's coffee mug and try to gauge how many sips she has left.

(It's definitely creepy. I do it anyway.)

She takes a sip.

I perk up.

She sets the mug down.

I slump.

This is my life now. Stalking strangers for furniture. Buzzing on questionable amounts of caffeine. Texting instead of writing. Doing everything but the thing I came here to do.

Then it happens.

Pen and Paper Lady finishes her coffee, tucks her notebook away, and leaves. I'm on that spot so fast you'd think it was about to vanish. I claim the desk, the outlet, the whole vibe.

I'm settling in now, spreading out just like Two-Monitor Guy, just like Water Bottle Girl, staking my claim with the same feral energy I just judged them for. My laptop's plugged in. My coffee's within reach. I'm hunkered down for the long haul.

And somewhere, I know—I know—some other creative just walked in, scanned the room, and started plotting how to take my spot.

The universe is balanced.

Now I’ll definitely write.

(Narrator: She did not write.)

If you enjoyed this, I write more essays about writing, romance, and professional procrastination on my Substack.