I went for a walk today; sought out the well-rounded roast accentuated with notes of blackberry, dark chocolate, and other flavors that were advertised proudly on the side of the canister. I hunted the generous cascade of half n half, or better yet, a sweetened creamer to soften the earthy flavors of my morning beverage.
Leggings. A sweatshirt. A damp jacket that had tumbled out of the washer with the rest of my clothes—not the best combination.
I draw my thin gloves over my fingers, and pull the hoodie of my faded lake george, adirondacks sweatshirt over my head, marching out onto the blistering cold sidewalk— a fearless trouper. The first minute is pure silence till I put on my headphones, and allow Noah Kahan’s grating voice to carry me away to the barren woods of Vermont, and snow-covered landscapes of Maine.
The whistle of a dumptruck. The whiff of sewage and diesel. The heavy aroma of butter wafting out of a bakery. My hands tingle.
In my mind I see snow-dusted evergreens, rising ripely from the pristine earth. I glance upward at a skyscraper, its spire adamantly scarring the glass sky. I close my eyes again and see the russet coat of a deer, weaseling its way through the forrest with its antlers—its pelt dappled in white spots. A puppy dressed in an oversized sweater brushes against my calf, the owner tugging on the leash.
Sorry
Don’t apologize, I think to myself.
Large brownstones materialize on either side me, flimsy iron fire escapes, latticing the window. I wonder how annoying it would be to look out and have an enormous hunk of iron blocking your vision.
A man sits on the sidewalk, a blanket on his lap, paper strewn at his feet.
My fingers itch to grab a pen, to uncrumple one of the napkins that he just wiped his mouth with and write a story on it.
Can I write you a poem?
What would it even say? My hands tingle.
I take a left, stopping outside the coffeeshop that I thought would be open, but is closed. Disappointment wells in my chest. Now, for the first time this morning, I look around me: the sidewalks are barren, the storefronts shuttered. My fingers physically hurt.
Why did I come outside?
Without a thought I take a right, heading into the concrete grocery store on the corner, which just happens to be open.
“Coffee?” I ask the lady in the front.
She directs me towards the back of the store, and I arrive at last, at a steel canister with pump. I read the sticker on the side.
No notes of blackberry, dark chocolate, or pomegranate. No hints of caramel, vanilla bean, or hazelnut.
Plain roast, the canister reads.
I push down on the pump with frozen hands, filling the cup to the brim, and adding a generous swirl of half n half. The chestnut hue blossoms with a cloud of white.
“Will that be all?” the lady says.
I nod.
I push hard against the door on my way out, the wind propelling me backward. When I step outside, a gust of cold stinging my cheeks, I hold the plastic cup to my lips, the hot fluid flooding my mouth and warming my insides.
I walk around, holding the cup to my chest, wandering the streets like a nomad till it is nearly drained. Then I pause at a trashcan, eyeing the heaps of plastic clustered around it. Paper cups and napkins are strewn inside–unwanted items deposited in a steaming vat of garbage. I hold the cup to my mouth, taking the last sip.
Maybe plain coffee isn’t so terrible after all.
Spilled Ink 