“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.