That Table Was Mine

Age 27

I walked into the coffee shop like I owned the place. Not because I actually did—but because I had claimed the good table. You know the one. By the outlet. Near the window. Perfect lighting. Minimal foot traffic. It was an unspoken rule among regulars: first come, first sit.

I dropped my bag on the chair and headed to the counter. I figured nobody would be that bold while I was gone for—what?—two minutes, tops. I placed my order, waited for the barista to aggressively steam my oat milk, and strolled back, espresso in hand.

And there she was. Sitting at my table. Sipping her matcha like she hadn’t just committed social treason.

I blinked. She smiled.

“I think you took my table,” I said, calmly but firmly.

She looked around. “I didn’t see your name on it.”

Oh. One of those.

“Well,” I said, “my bag was here.”

She nodded toward it—now sitting on the floor next to the chair. “You left it unattended. I figured it was forgotten. Could’ve been a bomb. I was being responsible.”

Could’ve been a bomb?

This was next-level entitlement warfare.

I considered making a scene. I considered dramatic, pointed coughing. I considered flinging my espresso against the window and declaring the table cursed.

Instead, I just walked back to the counter, grabbed a cup lid, and asked if there were any open tables outside. In the heat. With the flies.

I sat there for two hours, bitter from the coffee and the betrayal.

But I made sure to walk by her on the way out, casually dropping my used napkin on her table.

Petty? Sure.

But that’s what happens when you try to colonize my coffee turf.