two cubes and a lemon
The sun was in its full glory unobstructed by pillows of clouds but decorated with a spray of them.
The morning was blue, almost entirely clear except for that spray of clouds, which looked like a carpet ride painted white by the squeeze of an aerosol can.
The morning was blue, without a weight of sadness, blue like the one that the eyes sees from a sky that is the reflection of a perceived color.
It was this morning that I felt like a kid who got to do a grown up thing, a kid whose parent treated them according to knowledge and not age, desire not experience.
Upon reaching the mid street facing coffee bungalow of Maru Coffee, it stood like a mathematical equation for other than. Other than…the rest.
Being only what it could, it’s self, it was aware of how to stand out from the pack, the list, a lot. Because of this knowing, it made my entering its domain and eye-reading it’s menu, more an act of adventure than ritual.
I write this because as humans of habits, ones necessary and beautiful, the wanderlust of exploring within our everyday can be lost on us for the very nature of a comfort zone. This is what I want, this is what seems me.
Upon realizing that something with milk, was a comforting default and a safe way to start a clear blue morning such as this, the physical context of where I stood designed a moment prime to treat my palate, any palate the expanse of the sky: desperate what was into what could become.
Two Coava coffees roasted as a blend, paired with the scientific property of seltzer, cut with solid ice cubes and a slice of lemon, dressed with two skinny black straws, placed on a black cocktail napkin emerged.
And so did my appreciation for what was like a lemonade on parade. Except, that I was now flash-backed to the memory of a front lawn to a four plex, on a day that felt like the beginning of the summer because it was. And my two siblings and I were going to turn lemons into lemonade and buy as many hand games as we imagined a few dozen 25 cents could.
Habits need a good can of spray paint sometimes, it’s like putting graffiti on a wall, art in an unexpected place. It’s like coffee from a oatmeal colored, peach speckled bungalow in the middle of the street – my kind of California Romanza.
but with the kind of anticipation that something go
Rather, it was like they were sprayed across the sky, like an Aerosol can would do, if it’s pressure could .