You thank your barista and return to your sunlit seat by the window. You exhale. With serene anticipation you draw the heated ceramic mug to your lips and, to make this feeling last– even if only for a stolen moment– you allow yourself to pause the worries that swirl furiously through your over-worked, under-stimulated, partially-dysfunctional, mostly-out-to-get-you mind. Finally.
Steam from your cup curls around you and swaddles your face. It beckons you closer to take a sip, rolling fierce and calmly over chin to cheek, leaking warmth as precious as the humming rays pushing lazily through the window at your side. You lean in slightly. You inhale. As you do so the coffee-borne wisps burst tempestuously to life beneath your nose: sticky red honey licked from your fingers long after the baklava had gone; mandarin-soaked shirt and forearms at the pick-your-own Floridian orchard; blueberries that grew wild in your grandmother’s back yard.
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