I check my pulse for the third time today and release the tension I didn’t realize had gathered in my shoulders. Perfectly normal, as always. Small an act as it seems, this sort of repetition is the glue that holds me together. Sustains me. For some people such mundanity is the death of them, but those are the people that don’t have their lives together. Not like I do.
A reclaimed-fabric clad customer walks up to the counter, the side of her hand smudged with graphite. For a millisecond, my eyes flick up to her for assessment: a community college student pulling an all-nighter and in desperate need of caffeine. Those are the only customers a coffee house like this gets at eleven PM. Why the hell are we even open that late? And doesn’t she know all-nighters will ruin your health? Too much
