the shop on elm street

He remembers the woman who comes in every Thursday for a coffee and a pastry. He remembers the man who buys a newspaper every morning. He remembers the couple who come in every Saturday for breakfast. But he doesn't remember their names. He knows the woman likes her coffee black. He knows the man likes the sports section. He knows the couple likes to sit by the window. He knows all these things. But he doesn't know their names. He tries to remember. He really does. But it's like trying to grasp a handful of sand. The harder he tries. The more it slips away. He knows it's not just the names. It's the faces too. The faces are familiar. But they're not really familiar. They're like faces he's seen before. But can't quite place. He owns the shop on Elm Street. It's a small shop. It's a quiet shop. People come and go. They buy their coffee and their pastries. They read their newspapers. They sit by the window. They talk to each other. They talk to him. But he doesn't really listen. He just smiles and nods. He just says yes and no. He just remembers what they like. Sometimes he gets it wrong. Sometimes he gives the woman cream in her coffee. Sometimes he gives the man the wrong newspaper. Sometimes he sits the couple in the wrong seat. But they never get mad. They just laugh. They just say it's okay. They just say it's not a big deal. He likes them. He really does. He likes the woman and the man and the couple. He likes all the people who come into his shop. He likes their faces. He likes their voices. He likes their stories. But he doesn't know their names. The shop on Elm Street is a small shop. It's a quiet shop. But it's a shop that's full of life. It's a shop that's full of people. It's a shop that's full of memories. And he's the one who gets to be a part of it all. He's the one who gets to remember. He's the one who gets to forget.