Tomorrow's Friday, go get a morning coffee. Seriously.

A man walked into a coffee shop today and sat down before choosing to go order. As though deciding whether ordering coffee was something he truly wanted to spend 3 dollars and 95 cents on. But I knew better. He was deciding if he should have come to this coffee shop at all. I can tell by the way his hair has ruffled in the back he took a bus. By the way his shoes left a trail on the tiles, that he walked straight through the town’s park to make it here before his 9 am shift. He can't turn back now. He’s already inside, plus people have watched him approach the door and they heard the jingle ring as he tugged open the door. He already made it this far, it’ll all be pointless if he doesn’t get his coffee. And it is Friday.

There are small beads of sweat forming among his facial stubs above his lips as he hastily orders a coffee. His voice raspy as the words shoot out from his mouth. Almost aggressively. He shuffles through his pockets to find some change. Failing in being 10 cents short he resorts to grabbing his phone. He raises his phone to pay and he slides to the side to wait for his order to be called. His hands in his pockets as he tugs at the collar of his shirt, too tight around his neck. Too sticky against his chest. As though he’s thinking he needs a shower. But he’s not, I know better. He’s thinking he knew he hated that shirt, but he gave it one last chance because he didn’t want to wear his regular shirt and now this one is uncomfortable. He should have stuck with his regular shirt. But it is Friday and he wanted to wear something different.

I watch him as he rests his hands in the insides of his pockets. Waiting for his ears to hear his given name come out from one of the barista’s mouth. Probably mispronounced. He’s looking around. Not in a curious way, but in a sad way. In the way a man would, when he has regretted getting the coffee. But now he was already in line and he heard himself ask for his usual. He felt himself reaching for his phone. He felt himself raise his arm towards that card reader. Now he already walked that extra twenty minutes through the park. He already spent 10 minutes on that bus. He already woke up forty five minutes earlier. 

He already set up that alarm clock the night before. 

He had already planned for his Friday morning coffee since the Sunday night before, as he composed his schedule for the week. 

Just as he established his routine since the moment he began working his job... so many decades ago. 

His back is turned from me. It’s turned from the countertop, from the coffee shop, from people. 

I look at him through the reflection in the clear window he’s looking through. He’s a thousand miles away. 

What if we were meant to fall deep into the water below and never remerge? 

What if we were meant to sink down deep into the water and never return? 

He waits. Until our eyes meet and I see the curvature his eyelids form with the crevasses of his rough skin. There's a pearl hidden through the shell of skin.

“Robert?” I ask, only out for formality. “Your coffee.” 

“Thank you, miss.” 

His voice is kind. Polite. 

What if we were meant to explore coral reefs and instead we are looking as high as the tips of trees for new plans. And plans. 

What are plans if life is nonlinear? 

Why, then, should our plans be so linear ? 

How, then, does it make me feel so guilty doing something different from everyone else. How, then am I encouraged to do something different but then I discover difference is weakness. How then, can diversity be advertised when similarity is survival. 

Survival till tomorrow. Just for another day in order to survive the day. But eventually won’t we all fail?

I tug a couple napkins out from the dispenser and hand them to him. “In case the coffee’s too hot.” 

He takes it, his hands gently scoop the napkins from mine and smiles gratefully. Because that’s what he is supposed to do. Because he's faking. Because he doesn’t need the napkins and they will probably just take up space in his pockets. And then his wallet won’t fit and he’ll be forced to keep it in the left pocket instead. And then when he’s done working for the day, he'll look for his wallet while he’s out getting a drink with some friends. he'll then have a slight panic about not feeling his wallet in his regular left pocket. He'll stand, make a quick scene and then he’ll remember how he’d switched the wallet to the left pocket, that morning in the coffee shop. How’d he’d spent money that morning on coffee even though he didn’t truly want coffee. But it was Friday. And on Fridays he gets coffee. 

Then there’s this paradox of living and surviving. Surviving as a mechanism to live and living as motivation to survive. 

How is it so hard to accept that this is living at times? That I’m not just waiting for that Friday coffee. That I haven’t waited for too long. That on Friday, I may not even want that coffee anymore. That the whole week was spent waiting for something I barely even wanted. 

He uncovers the lid I handed him, as steam escapes. As though the steam had been building up for far too long inside. It only took one second before it emerged into the new, fresh air. 

Liberated.

Because after all, we all find comfort in doing the same things to keep us sane in the ethereal search for the meaning of life. Such a challenging task within a world where life is everything, but nothing specific at all. 

“Thank you for the napkins,” he smiles and not because they kept him insulated from the heat of the coffee. But because he used them to dry up a couple drops which trickled down from the cup. He didn’t think he’d be using those napkins at all. And I smile because of the little things of life which don’t make up the meaning of life at all. But they are everything. 

Under the steam the black coffee lies still inside the cup. 

Someone just needed to open the lid.