It wasn’t raining. It also wasn’t sunny. It was an in-between blue-grey day.
I paid. They handed it to me. As they passed the paper cup over the counter, it felt like slow-motion glory. I could not imagine wanting something more than I wanted the contents of that cup. It had a beautiful only-ness to it. My brain was soup. It was a haze, under-motivated to even zip up my jacket all the way. My hair was combed, but it looked uncombed. I no longer hated everyone for not respecting me for all the things I had done that they had no way of knowing about. I was too weak to hate. I reached out and grabbed it like a warm ring of gold, the holy grail, to go.
I nodded and thanked them, more than they could know. I didn’t need my change. I apishly pulled that poorly-designed plastic tab. I pulled it so much. I pressed it back in its supposed divot. It popped up. I pressed it back again. Even though I knew things were uncertain, I went in for a sip. The plastic tab irreverently popped up again and scraped my eager lips. But I did not care. I could swear that I could feel it sparking and lighting through my brain like a trail of water through a desert dry for 1000 years.
It was imperfect, but still good. I instantly felt strong and what I imagine normal to be like.
My hand gripped the cup in earnest. So much so that a little empty spot above my wrist, framed by strained tendons, appeared because my hands are so bony. Into this space, the coffee pools. It jumps and sloshes while I walk. It pools in the temporary place in my hand that is only there because I am holding the cup. The cup and the space are a part of one another, dependents in a messy morning dance that I cannot hate, nor ever fully enjoy.