Reflections on a Haunt

I often find myself gravitating toward my favorite local convenience store to write. It is a striking space, defined by a soaring wall of windows that invites the steady, soft glow of northern light. The atmosphere is intentionally austere: the furniture is unforgivingly hard, and the playlist is a rotation of the unusual and unpredictable.
The clientele consists mostly of what passes for neighbors in this city—familiar faces who generally respect the unspoken rule of solitude. However, the experience comes at a premium. One cannot simply sit and write without purchasing an expensive drink, but the cost is justified since it is the best caffeine in town, and the staff knows it. These servers are charmingly geeky, though they tend to rebuff any social overtures with a practiced cool.
While they provide reliable internet, the setting seems to demand something more tactile; this patron usually chooses to write on paper with liquid ink. It is a place where one can write in peace—at least for half an hour, or until the stiff chairs finally demand a graceful exit.