Guarded

I eat at Dolina pretty often. Pantry Dos is still my primary breakfast headquarters, but every once in a while I like to switch things up a bit.

You know. Keepin’ it fresh ‘n’ shit.

So yesterday morning I was out riding Aurora shortly after sunrise, and holy fucking hell have I mentioned what an absolute animal she became after the cam upgrade?

Because WOW. That bike doesn’t idle anymore so much as threaten nearby structures. I’m pretty sure I woke up half of Santa Fe just rolling through town. Car alarms activating in my wake like some sort of chrome-plated mechanical demon announcing the arrival of poor financial decisions.

So I decide I want Dolina.

Now, I love the vibe there. But the parking situation? Absolutely fucking cursed. Especially on a Harley.

There I am wrestling Aurora across loose pea gravel, trying not to dump five hundred pounds of angry motorcycle in front of brunch people wearing scarves and discussing European butter.

There is nothing worse than backing up a motorcycle in loose rock.

Nothing.

I almost tipped her over twice, but through stubbornness, profanity, and raw Nordic rage, I eventually managed to park beside the building.

I got there before opening, so I just sat on the bike for a while listening to music and messing around with my new 3D camera setup while a line slowly formed outside the door.

People kept glancing at me while speed-walking toward the entrance trying to secure better positions in line.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t moving.

I don’t wait in lines. Lines wait for me.

Eventually they opened and the crowd disappeared inside, and once the coast was clear I climbed off the bike and wandered in like some caffeinated desert cryptid arriving exactly when intended.

I ordered my usual:

• cappuccino

• baked eggs

There are only two dishes I normally get there. One is smoked salmon toast with capers and all kinds of magical little flavor explosions. The other is this baked egg dish served in cast iron with tomato sauce and herbs and whatever witchcraft they’re using back there.

Breakfast, for me, is never rushed. It’s an experience.

I sit there slowly drinking coffee and watching people emotionally unravel because somebody forgot their side of toast or brought them oat milk instead of almond milk or whatever morning catastrophe has temporarily disrupted their sense of cosmic balance.

And honestly? I can’t relate.

How do people wake up angry?

Seriously.

You slept. You survived another night. The sun is shining. The world still exists.

How does somebody begin a fresh day by thinking: “You know what? I think I’ll make somebody else miserable today.”

Makes no goddamned sense to me.

So there I am quietly enjoying my breakfast and what I thought was a cappuccino, appreciating the simplicity of the moment, when morning drama lands on my table.

The coffee guy accidentally brought me a latte instead of a cappuccino and joked about me not getting my usual. Then he set an actual cappuccino down beside it, leaving me with two hot caffeinated beverages where once there had only been one.

Didn’t bother me in the slightest.

Honestly, I mostly just want coffee when I’m out. I order cappuccinos because they’re simple and comforting.

I can drink black coffee at home. But out in the world? Give me the fancy foam, goddamnit.

A little while later, the waitress came by and apologized for the mix-up, which honestly caught me off guard because I hadn’t complained at all.

Mistakes happen. People are human. I’m not about to launch a customer service crusade over milk texture.

Then later the coffee guy came by again. Made another light comment about the mix-up.

And then… He misgendered me.

Just like that.

One tiny moment. One tiny word. And suddenly years of warm interactions shifted slightly sideways.

Now look: this is not some dramatic public victimhood speech. I’ve been transgender for over twenty years. I’ve been misgendered more times than I could possibly count. At this point it usually just rolls off me. I shrug. Move on. Continue existing.

But this one hit differently.

Maybe because I suspect he’s gay.

And queer people know exactly what the fuck I mean when I say that.

I think I carried assumptions into the interaction. I thought: “Surely this person understands.”

Not perfectly. Not politically. Not academically. Just… humanly.

And maybe that expectation was unfair. Maybe we’re all just carrying our own shit through the world trying to survive it.

But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting a little. Because what hurts about moments like this isn’t rage. It’s distance.

The sudden realization that somebody who felt warm and familiar maybe doesn’t actually see you the way you thought they did.

Will I go back? Of course I will.

He’s always been pleasant. The food is fantastic. The vibe is still lovely.

But if I’m being honest? Something shifted in me during that moment.

I’ll probably smile a little less easily now. Probably hold myself a little more cautiously. A little more guarded.

Not devastated. Just… aware.