The Way I See It

Every morning I am called to journey beyond the confines of my downtown work building and into a world full of cozy warmth, bustling activity, and the smell of coffee. It is a cherished route that I take, one which frees me (if only temporarily) from the office phones that cheerfully pull and tug at my sanity with their persistent jingle jangle. Free also from the cold which has resolutely camped out in my corner of the office and free from the feeling of doom which mounts higher and higher as my begrudged rut becomes ever deeper. I step outside of my working world and I breathe again.

The Coffee Shop.

Despite the calls of multi-syllabled drink orders and the boisterous conversations of suited lawyers and casual city workers, a feeling of peaceful sanctuary washes over me. I relish the thought of a corner table, a steamy Chai, and a good friend. I do not desire work. I desire a lazy afternoon filled with the good conversations that I can never find enough of—set to the tune of big band melody. Slipping into line, I eye the brightly colored mugs which line the wooden shelves—a wink at Mod by the marketing team. I approach the barista, Raney, who is one of my favorites. About a week ago we had been comrades, cutting our hair short with a nose up to anyone who thought less of us for it. A courageous surge of frustration and liberation had recently turned Raney’s hair from short to buzzed. It was a brave move—and she was happy. I was happy for her. I exchange my plastic for her paper and move on to the newspaper rack which stands guarding the happily swinging door. The headlines always prod at my curiosity and I find myself helplessly drawn to the bold black ink. This does nothing but draw a vague picture of Portland the day before, but these days it seems that image is best served blurry. My drink is soon planted before me riding on a string of titles and personal preferences. I take the cup and let its warmth awake my fingers, drinking in the smell of coffee beans one last time before swinging out the busy doors. I have not left my sanctuary—I clutch it tightly in my hand—until the last drop.