My taxes are crazy this year. UI, freelance editing, contract editing, my university job. I have to think about deductions. The computer, the desk, the chair, driving to and from FedEx, DSL, medical insurance. And, what investments I had, tanked. So, I've hired an accountant to prepare my taxes. The taxes are simple, usually; I hope to learn enough from the accountant that I can do it myself next year.

This accountant hosts from a ninth-floor suite in one of the skyscrapers that appeared while I was living abroad. The basement is valet parking only and high-tech gadgets adorn the lobbies. After our meeting, which was fast because my life is simple and I'm a little compulsive when it comes to organizing things, she validated my parking and then some. I used the extra time to buy a short soy hot chocolate from the Tully's in the lobby, to sit and read The Stranger.

The barista was a charismatic man just sardonic enough to be really funny. I played with the magic smiley face ball they had sitting on the counter (each shake generates a random compliment) while he projected witticisms at another barista and other customers. When the barista got to my drink, he asked me if I wanted a little chocolate, normal chocolate, or over-the-top break-out-the-bar chocolate. I said the last one and thanked him for asking because I'm tired of having to ask for it.

I told him how a long time ago, before chain stores put all the small carts out of business, I used to work at an espresso cart downtown. I said the owner was never around and portion control wasn't in my vocabulary, so I made the mochas and hot chocolates the way I like them: heavy on the chocolate and capped with whipped cream domes that had chcolate drizzled over top. Over time, our edge over the competition became drinks for chocolate lovers. Sales of hot chocolates and mochas soared, and we burned through the Hershey's and whipped cream.

He handed me my small soy hot chocolate, which he had insulated in whipped cream and drizzled chocolate.

He said he grew up in Europe, with espressos and cappuccinos and macchiatos. He said when he came to the U.S. he couldn't get a handle on the way we drink coffee, all huge and milky.

He asked me what I do now and I told him I'm a freelance editor. The other barista, who had been cleaning up the joint and ostensibly not involved in the conversation, said, "You're a what?" So I said it again, and they both replied that it was cool. And it wasn't a dismissive "cool," but wide-eyed genuine-sounding sentiment. It felt good to hear, as if it represented something you could become if you were a barista, but also because I devalue what I do because I don't want to be doing it, and because, right now, it appears I can't do what I would rather be doing.

After I finished the drink, I went back and told him it was the best hot chocolate I'd had in a long time, which was entirely true.