“Wanna leave at 9 for Dunks?” I asked Sam as she colored her eyebrows. “Yeah I should be ready by then.” In big coats and backpacks we didn’t have to say goodbye because we are so obviously the morning people. Drowsily we stumble in our comfy leggings and Ugg boots unless we are feeling especially confident and I put on my brown boots with the heel so that when I go to class everyone can hear me approaching. “Ah, I’m so tired. I shouldn’t have stayed up watching the Ted Bundy tapes until 2 a.m. last night.” We turn down the staircase and maneuver through other people in the lobby.
My body feels the familiar malnourishment that the first two weeks back at college always does. I drift in and out along the puddles from melted snow with the trees just low enough so the sun can be seen, like the person in the back of a group photo. The walkways are a mess of confused weather, ice that made someone just across the way slip but break their fall. He looks around to see if anyone saw it and me and Sam giggle in victory. On a good day, there is the guy singing and playing guitar. It reminds me of my English teacher in high school the way that he sings with conviction yet is subtle. On a really good day, I see Officer Bill, the smiling gem who wheeled me around all last semester. But that’s a different story.
We get inside and the beeps of the machines in higher or lower notes hit me like a flick on the cheek. The steam from the cappuccino drifts from the machine into my nose. The orange Dunkin aesthetic then proceeds to swallow my eyes like Trump’s illuminated face with the color covering the top of the wall. And before I even get my coffee, I am alert. We arrive behind a couple that is being very overtly sexual much too early in the morning. Up ahead is the girl in my class with her braids in as usual that shows up the earliest to class with coffee and makes me want to have my shit together.
After many moments of overhearing whole itineraries, it was our turn. “What can I get for you?” I glance at Sam to tell her to go first. I wait for her while I try to inch away from the guy standing way too close behind me. Am I claustrophobic or do I just believe in personal space? I eagerly step up to the register when the cashier’s tone of voice is so fake it hurts. “Yes, I’ll have a medium iced shortbread with skim please.” We walk to the straw station and I gaze tired eyes at workers dodging in between each other behind the counter like synchronized swimming and it brings back the stress of morning rushes when I worked at a coffee shop, trying to speed it up and still not mess up. The worker hands me my coffee and it’s like the very first time again; I grab a tall straw, poke it in the middle and swirl it around, watching the ice spin in circles.
