cafe mornings.

it's always chilly in the morning. i stick my fingers along the heat vents in my car until they burn - anything to find warmth.

when it's 7:13, i am rounding the corner to get on the Highway. if it's a minute earlier or a minute later than this when I reach this bend in Littleton, I know I'll either be way too early, or five minutes late, haphazardly tossing my purse into the file cabinet, dodging disapproving glances.

when i get on the highway, i can breathe again. the sun is always rising and lately, the trees reach for the blue sky with their fiery leaves. fiery fingers. the warmth from the vents floods through my coat. i fumble through the radio and land a perfect song.

i've dodged the death trap merge onto route 2 hundreds of times now. i know when to slow, when to speed, when to cut someone off, when to honk and yell and flash the bird. i realize now how many profanities emerge from my mouth at that intersection on a daily basis.

& then it's the race against the clock. it's usually 7:43 by now, and i have exactly 17 minutes before i have to be standing, dressed in shirt and hat, smiling and pouring the coffee. i always get in the right lane and take off - route 2 is hilly but straightforward and by now, i could drive it with my eyes closed. praying there are no cops around, i fly with Little Red and we both always secretly know there are no cops. i think i have a sixth sense for cops - i have yet to be pulled over, and i attribute this to pure instinct.

arrival.

i let my hands linger on the vents for a minute or two, answer a few text messages, power down. outside, C is grilling. At 7:30 in the morning. lately, the leaves have littered his grilling area, but it hasn't stopped him. nothing stops C. ever.

i throw my purse in the designated second to last drawer of the old filing cabinet. the basement has turned so cold, now that it's fall, and i shiver as i pull off my long sleeved shirt, trading it for my Work Shirt. I throw on my old baseball cap, glance in the mirror, feel briefly ridiculous & wonder how i landed here. Clock in.

Upstairs, I can hear dishes clinking. Soft voices, murmuring into the morning. The little bell announces the arrival of more customers. The early morning hush is still present, though - I can always feel it as I walk up those rickety orange stairs, in the way the coffee steams from the pots, the machines lightly hiss, the gentleness that still resides in people's voices that is so absent come midday. I watch it every day - the way the cafe slowly opens its arms and eyes.

Coffee beans, esspresso machines.

This is my life right now as I know it, and I am going to write about it.