Caffe Espresso. Two fs.

Everything in Caffe Espresso was tippy. The tables wobbled. The floors slanted. The chairs rocked on uneven legs. And you know, us. The kids. We were the least stable of the bunch. The cafe occupies a very small sliver of time during sophomore year of high school, a year that’s mostly vanished from my memory, but this place asserts itself — the smell of the room, cigarettes and coffee. Dim lighting. Gouged tables. You could pack thirteen people around one of those tables so that no one got left out. And maybe you didn’t say anything, but you were part of the group, sliding onto a tall, wobbly wooden stool at one of the high tables, squeezing in wearing a winter coat and watching, sipping a raspberry Italian soda with cream.

Remembered the next morning:
This place was in a strip mall next to the ski shop and across the street from a Burger King.

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