JOURNAL:A NORMAL DAY

I am standing in line at my favorite cafe, surrounded by smells and sounds. An uptempo milieu of acoustic guitar and tambourine is occupying the atmosphere around me, an Andy Davis tune, and I’m singing along—”It’s a goooo-oood life; it’s a good, good life”—like a tone-deaf idiot, missing every-other note, mumbling the words I don’t know while looking out the large window to my left, staring into the blankness of the morning. 

I smell coffee. The smell alone is a near-religious experience. The whole scene is impressive in the way a kid breakdancing on the street is impressive; it’s completely foreign to me, but I’m mesmerized. How could you not be?

People’s faces change, visibly brighten, when they enter the cafe’s main room, kicking snow from their boots and brushing melted flakes from their parkas. Their postures autocorrect under the high ceilings; the average height of each patron seems to increase at least half an inch as they stand in line, bathed in natural light and coffee aroma.

It’s my turn to order: Americano, black. The dark-haired girl at the register is wearing a smile I’d like to frame. She’s intimidatingly attractive, and so I fumble for something clever to say when she asks me how I’m doing. But I’ve got nothing, no words—my mouth, a swordless sheath.

I pull out my wallet to pay, peeling a few singles from my thin stack. I don’t even consider using my credit card. The cold keeps calm everything outside the windows, huge flakes like wet chips of white paint peeling off the sky. Cash—not a debit card, but cold hard cash—