On Saturday, I had the morning off at the restaurant where I work. So I slept in a bit then went and sat in a café near my house that doesn’t have Wi-Fi. This makes it a special place for me. No possibility of working there, so most times I don’t go, because most times, I either need to be working or feel like I need to be working. “A latte, please.” It felt special to be there on a Saturday morning, I wanted to buy myself a treat. I sipped it and read The New York Times in paper form and had one of the nicest times I’ve had in a long time.
I drank good expensive coffee and read the paper and listened to music and it was perfect. But the latte that morning turned out to have been a sort of problematic move. If I’d had a normal cup of coffee, would I associate that with the warm feelings of the day? I don’t know, but I know that every day since, it’s a latte that I want.
Today I woke up and my body was in a ball under the duvet. Too cold to get out from under the covers. The first day of that this year. I started playing mind games, offering the promise of a warm shower (that didn’t work—my brain was too quick, remembered the sadness of a wet body after the water has been turned off), a sweater. Socks. And then a lightbulb: If I got out of bed, I could have a latte.
It worked. I’ve had two. ($10, with tip)