Angels

"Good morning!" he says.

It's what? Just before 11 on a Tuesday morning and the guy behind the counter at the coffee shop is too perky, too early. (Because, you know, 11 for journos is early.)

I definitely don't feel like smiling, but smile anyway. I order hot chocolate and a croissant; he takes it from the Hot Chocolate-Mixing Lady.

"Here, lemme do this," he says, spiraling chocolate sauce onto the froth.

"Stirrer," he commands, holding out his palm like a surgeon.

When he puts the cup on the counter, there's swirly hearts on top. I smile again.

"Thank you for making me smile today," I say. "It didn't feel like a day for smiling."

"I'm really not a morning person!" he says brightly.

"Well, whatever you're on, I want it!"

I walk out. It takes me five miles to remember I forgot to pay. It took him 10 minutes, he will say.

Two hours later, I swipe my card and thank him again for the smile.

"You see the sign?" he asks, pointing at the blackboard at my back.

No negativity. No politics. :)

"You don't have to worry about that," I say. "I'm all politicked out."

(Covering city gov does that.)

He makes me promise to come back before I leave. And I do promise. Free smiles on a cold, gloomy day? Anytime.