our coffee shop

The way the baristas know our names and we know theirs. How the coffee changes ever so slightly from week to week and I can tell the difference. How on the other side of the window walls the same people pass by every day - the woman with the cremoline slips and high heels, the plastic bag man, the bony runner with the jamaican flag slung around his shoulders. I know the details and thereby cherish a sense of possession despite my place as a simple observer.

Fog builds up on the windows on sharp days; the days when everyone buries their noses deep in their collar or wears their thickest socks.

While the long commute - two hours one way most days - can feel like hurtling into the great swirl of a storm where unpredictability has control, I can know that once I get down the hill, through the biting wind, and behind the door, it will be warm in the same way it was the day before. Even though my headphones are the little between me, cat calls, and screaming, the sleek shelves will still hold the same mugs and the tip jar will still be sitting on the counter. There will still be smiles and hullohs of recognition - deeper than obligation.