coffee spills

I was always concerned about being perfect. My first stressthoughts in the morning were floods of reminders, wishful thinking, desires for freedom. Then, I became concerned with knocking over very large cups of coffee.

I started doing it nonchalantly; “accidentally” knocking into other things or myself. “Oops!” I’d laugh, feigning humiliation, edging towards the doors, “Clumsy me, don’t know what I’m doing.”

No one suspected a thing.

I began tipping with more aggression.

Going into cafes, I’d always have three, four, maybe five overloaded bags. (A child was a useful accessory too.) Sometimes I would bring in the noisiest of dogs, blare awful music on the loudest, crummiest headphones I could find, was so heavily perfumed I’m sure I made rats pass out as I walked by. I went during the rush, always feigning a rush myself, never actually buying anything, just bustling and hustling til the ground was scorched and sweetened. “You’re like a worley dervish,” I’d snicker to myself over laundry baskets full of brown-stained socks.

I spilled an iced vanilla latte over a girl with crisp yellow shorts; a large americano flew into a neatly organized briefcase; I encouraged two steaming cups over an intense chess game between two grumpy old men.

I couldn't get enough of the oozing brown seeping into the very clean lives of these people. I wanted more. I went into the student cafes, splatting pumpkin spice latte’s onto the glossy pages of their textbooks. Those Macbooks didn’t stand a chance against my two umbrellas, five grocery bags, and a beagle.

Those tipping cups, I’d feel overwhelmed when they hit the forty-five degree angle, felt my blood pumping harder and harder, barely stopping myself from yelling out “Tiiimmmbeerrrr-”

But tastes change. Life goes on.

Now, I play dominoes.