Drip, pour over, french press. Bold, mild, “a little room for cream.” You order half decaf, “make it a medium,” and feel like the drunk who orders near-beer. Who are we kidding. You sit facing the window, and the clock (there is only so much time), pull out your journal, a new pen. You write the date and Wednesday and pause, words lodged in your throat. In the background, the espresso machine speaks in fits and starts, hot steam charging the milk. The barista asks, What can I get started for you? You have a list of plenty. The man sitting at the high table behind you says into his phone, “Surprise me.” He doesn’t sound convinced. The coffee has yet to kick in. Still, you jot something down on paper. Maybe just these morning observations. Every word counts. And in every detail, there is a story.
