Scenes from a life

I am fascinated by my barista’s hands.  He grinds the espresso beans and empties it into the filter handle,  smoothing it out with his fingers in a sort of curving fluid motion. I imagine what his fingers must smell like after an entire day of making coffee. While the espresso brews, he steam the milk. He grips the pitcher tightly with his left hand and I watch as his right hands curls around the side, testing the milk’s temperature. There’s a sort of rhythm to the way his fingers touch and move away from the pitcher, once, twice, and on the third, it is warm enough and he puts one shot of espresso into the cup then swirls in the milk,only halfway. He adds the other two shots and finishes up with the milk. Carefully, he smooths one finger around the lid, securing it into place then hands my morning caffeine addiction to me, quietly telling me to have a nice day.


Contrails criss-cross against the pale blue of morning sky, creating a grid across the power lines I peer up at through my foggy windshield. Now that the children have been taken to their respective schools, I am alone in the car, heat blasting and radio turned up; probably either on the XM Love station or Hair Nation. I admit to being a multi-tasking driver. I wouldn’t do make-up or anything but I’m guilty of checking weather on my phone or calling my mom or digging for my debit card that I no doubt tossed into a pocket of my bag, carelessly. My brain tries to organize thoughts but it’s a jumble of ideas, all bumping into one another: What am I going to teach my students today? Did I unplug the toaster? That book I’m reading is SO good; why did I ever skip it before? What’s for dinner? I miss Bones. And many other things that are merely ideas, not formed into coherent words, just misty wisps of thought trailing through my gray space. Before I know it, I pull into the FSU parking lot and begin the morning.


I’m angry at the world, though I couldn’t explain why. I just know that it occurred to me while brushing my teeth, noting the tiny specks of toothpaste that dot the vanity mirror. In the car, I am angry at traffic, annoyed by Elliot’s whining, and then supremely pissed as my radio lands on Rupert Holmes’ Escape, i.e. The Pina Colada song. I’m enraged because I HATE that song; who wants to listen to a guy sing about how he’s tired of his old lady and wants to answer a personal ad? I keep listening though because traffic is bad and I just didn’t change the station for whatever reason. And as I really hear the lyrics this time, I realize that when he sends in a reply to mystery woman’s personal ad and meets up with her, it’s his old lady. And they reconnect and… and… I cried. Right there in the car because I am a total sap.



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