Because It's Meant To Bedletter

“You ever look outside and just get lost in the seasons?” he said, pacing around the shop. His eyes were glued to the waves of tumbling leaves wafting around on the wind outside. It was their time to die, their time to break off the twigs and branches that once held them tight. Their time to gracefully flip over a few times before resting between the blades of brown and yellow grass.
I’d seen Gavin in here many times before, but rarely ever talked to him. We usually just exchanged glances, head nods, and when one of us sneezed, the other would bless. This coffee shop was a sort of home-away-from-home for us both. The same could be said for a host of locals that frequented this place. I’d been musing frequent visits into every day occurrences, cementing my time in routine. They had the best coffee, and the best side conversations to spy in on; great commentary on the problems that plague life and plenty of posited solutions. It all happened here, gears churning and wheeling ideas into new blips of caffeine-fueled ambition. The artists, the real estate agents, the business people, the dungeons and dragons folk, musicians—there was a spectrum of brain and brawn that crawled out from the trees of north Georgia and gelled together here. Coffee is coffee and when it’s roasted, they come.
“The seasons are really somethin’. The way they change, I mean. They’re all so different from each other. It’s honestly really quite wonderful, ya know?” Gavin said. He was still pacing and rubbing his chin, eyes still stapled to the autumn swirl stirring outside the window. I was across the shop, cozied up against a stretch of glazed oak that formed a table, staring out the window and humming the tunes of fall as well. His feet were restless and he paced and gaited around the shop to every corner and was grinding out some thoughts on the changing weather. Most people used the weather to break the ice or talk small, but Gavin had real substance to pick like a bone off the chicken wing. And he was.
“It’s like, summer is long and hot and steamy, especially down here in the south. But then there’s this transformation into winter that takes several months. And winter is completely different! The humidity is gone and you can see between all the trees and suddenly there are houses and stores that you never could see before,” he exclaimed, massaging his scalp, completely mesmerized.
“That’s a good point. I’ve always thought it interesting to be able to see between the trees in the winter. Everything out here always feels wild and forested in. Then the leaves fall and the trees grow thin and you can see everything. Like the south’s clothes got ripped off and everyone’s privacy is out and open!” The barista behind the bar replied back, and they were conversating now. Everyone in the shop was tapping away on their keyboards, scribbling in notebooks—doing something else, something we all came here to consume ourselves with. But really, we were just listening.
“Exactly! It’s so weird. But it’s supposed to be that way,” Gavin went on, bouncing off the barista’s perception of winter. “I think it was all created that way—which is really quite brilliant.” Gavin was halfway across the shop, still wearing tracks in the floor of the coffee house, chiming back to the barista over his shoulder. His eyes were wide and you could see the autumnal reflection in them. It was the little things that warmed up his blood. The little things, little like summer, spring, winter, fall. Seasons—the normal, everyday seasons, the ones we all live through year after year. But they weren’t so little now, they were happening. The world was changing, and it wasn’t miniscule or trivial. It was happening and we all took it for granted. But not Gavin, he was watching and graphing it all out across his mind. The barista was nodding and wiping a mug clean. She placed it up on a rack with fifty other mugs and leaned against th