CoffeeTea: Bigelow’s Earl Grey, pre-packed; fragrant like a rest home, bitter like all the missed opportunities that got you there.
My coffee pot broke – again. I bought it to replace one that had lasted me four years; this pot barely got three months of use. I didn’t have time to pick up coffee on the morning drive so I settled for making black tea. It was alright. The pack was old. That doesn’t make much difference to the flavor, but knowing I’d had this tea since a different zip code piqued an uncomfortable aroma.
It wasn’t a bad day; wasn’t a long day; I couldn’t connect to it. People came and went. The bank was busy for a while then it wasn’t. I heard stories from my coworkers – real rough shit about their families. I ate my lunch with a plastic knife and no fork because I forget to pack cutlery. Outside, August still nuzzled September. Inside, it was ice-water cold.
I’ve been having old dreams. Well, they’re new dreams about old places, old people. I’ll be sitting in a desk in an empty college classroom; I’ll talk on the phone with you. In the dreams, it’s always stormy. The sky’s cobalt and somewhere close is thunder. I wake up at midnight, then at 3:30, and then a little late for my alarm clock. Each time, I’m sweating. It’s not fear. A long day on baseball bleachers watching the game, no shade, just sun. I wash my sheets regularly because I’m convinced they smell. I wouldn’t know, though. The older I get, I’m losing my sense of smell.
I took a walk tonight, not very far, saw some kids, talked to a neighbor. Cicadas made noise in the trees. I looked up. I wanted to join their party. Unfortunately, I never could find them.
Currently Reading: Autumn, Ali Smith
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“… it is one thing to desire, another to be in capacity fit for what we desire.” – Thomas Hobbes