Stale Grounds

Sitting in a coffee shop, drinking espresso, then seltzer water. Watching the rain. The lightning. Pause, then the thunder.

Watch the shots. The pours. Glance at the resulting drink and think that I could do better.

Well, could.

And it's not about better, really. Never was. Not relative to others. Not even relative to myself. Coffee - unlike running - was never competitive. I just loved doing it, and however good I got was born from that seven or so years of practice.

It's been about a year now though. Not quite that, by my reckoning, but close enough. Told a friend today - she's still doing it - that it feels like five.

I could probably get some minor high off of the pantomime tamping. Don't get me started on latte art.

There's something to be said for the people too. A lot, really. Hundreds of people every day, all thrilled to see you. (All? Most.) Not too many jobs like that. Not too many worlds in which eight hours a day is spent mingling among friends.

But money is a thing, an important thing. That's reality. I make more now and when I don't spend it like a dipshit, things are comfortable. That's nice.

I need a new pair of running shoes, and if I could find a pair I didn't hate, I could buy them. (But I can't, which, fuck. But that's another thing.) That's nice.

I have healthcare, and probably some other stuff that's covered in that handbook I really never read. I guess that's nice. If I did actually fuck up my ankle (I didn't), fixing it wouldn't be an impossible chore. That'd be nice.

Really, I do mean all of that. I enjoy my job. I work with some great people. And the company has given me good things.

I don't think this is inconsistent. You can miss where you were and be satisfied with where you are. No regrets.

Just... I wish someone would let me pull some fucking shots. That's not so bad, is it? After hours. Before hours. Shit, I'd work a few hours on the weekends. I'd pay you to let me do that. And then I need to pour a rosetta, just to see that I still can.