The grumpy barista

I held my coffee through the dark, U-ed around the banister, found the landing in the deepest black, the occasional car passing on the road outside shedding light through the curtain. I did it all without seeing where I was going. How much of what we do is just a bodily memory of having done it before? Knowing the exact spot on the wall of the light switch – how do we know in the dark exactly where the spot on the wall is? Or the first step? Or the second? Or the abrupt right turn?

Some days just the waking up makes you grumpy. It’s the dreams faults, the cars on the road, the sick boyfriend snoring, the cat stealing your covers. Last night I dreamt I went to starbucks and a women working there was so chipper to the customers because that was part of her job, but I showed up and under her breath I could hear her say how much she hated all the people and the customers and the fucking cream. And I was the one listening to the things people say when they think no one can hear them. I was there listening. And I told her I wouldn’t tell anyone and we became friends.

Who else do I write about if not you?

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