My grampa had been continually astounded at how many coffee shops have sprung up over the last decade. The weird part was that he’d never set foot in one. Since I’d moved in with him, he’d seen me bringing home paper coffee cups from different places every so often. “Grampa?” I said, walking up to him as he sat on the brown plaid sofa reading the Detroit Free Press. He had a gray cardigan and jeans on, and as always, blindingly white socks. “Yeah, hon?” he said, folding up the paper and looking over at me. “Let’s go get a coffee.” “Got coffee right here,” he said, nodding to his cup sitting properly on the nautical table on a coaster. “Want some? I got plenty.” He started to get up and get me a cup. “No, no.” He stopped and looked at me over his reading glasses. “At a coffee shop,” I said cheerfully. “You can finally check one out.”
