Red velvet brushes against my skin. My hand glides and curves and strokes, making patterns in the fabric. The song pounding through my headphones changes—Norah Jones. Something old. Something 2000s. My hand feels cold without the warm embrace of a mug handle, espresso steam billowing off the top. I pluck the mug off the white oak table in front of me. I peer down at the heart drawn delicately with frothed milk before destroying it, slurping it away. The warm liquid moves its way through my body, awakening my soul, my spirit, my mind.
I steal the pen sitting atop my ear to write a bullet point. Then another. I scribble away in my notebook. On my laptop shines a vibrant white page. An exhibition catalogue or an essay or an article assigned meticulously by a professor scouring the web for the perfect reflection. I flip to a new lined page.
The plastic laminate on the outside of my library book chills my leg. I want to highlight quotes, but instead I just commit them to memory. “We are walking down the steeply sloping hill, la la la, the hill upon which the towers and bells of Warren shimmer like a wish.” I pull my phone from deep within my backpack—from where I had previously tossed it in order to focus—to take a photo. Inspiration buzzes all around me. It bounces from the ceiling to the wall to the barista and back. It burrows within me. I need to write, I think.
Brown and burgundy and deep yellow. Purple and red and burnt orange. Jazz over the speakers. Pastries lined on a shelf: croissant, eclair, bagel, muffin. Soft chatter echoing. A fireplace lit in the corner. A family with two young children enters the room to screw it all up. My roommates follow behind.
They pull up chairs, walking awkwardly through the common space, doling out I’m sorry’s and ‘scuse me’s. The loud screech and moan of the legs moving against the cement floor. My friends join me and I update them on my day, my work, my life. I show them what book I’m reading. They remind me of all the people they hate, anxiously checking the room for people we know who would give us away. Buns that sit high on their heads flop back and forth as they talk with their hands. We pass a lip balm counterclockwise as a packet of gum circles clockwise. We fuse into one as we ride the rhythm and wave and synchronicity of each other. I take a sip of their dark roast, black as the night sky. I pretend to love it. I do love them.
We leave the coffee shop when the sun is setting. 4 pm is much too early. I will wake up and do it all again tomorrow.
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