Grey outside my window, an absence of light more than the pre-sunrise needed to energize my sleep deprived body. My eyes snap open, reluctantly, at the sound of buzzing from my phone alarm. My fingers stumble over the touch screen, setting off a series of bleeps before finally making contact with the dismiss button. “Snooze” is a luxury, one I rarely use since graduating from university.
In the grey half-light I search for clothes I should have laid out the night before but, like every night, am unmotivated to do so. I’ve already showered before going to bed so getting dressed and a quick facial takes minutes. I make it downstairs in the half light, managing not to trip over all but one cat. Tea kettle on as I set up a travel mug with a tea bag that I won't touch on the drive in and usually leave in the car when I go into work. The house is still silent when I grab the keys hanging from the spice rack and head out to the car.
I choose a playlist titled "Morning Mix" before pulling out of the driveway and "Suddenly I See" rings out. The opening scene of "The Devil Wears Prada" plays through my memory as I check for traffic and pull out onto the main road; I should be choosing outfits meticulously and wearing designer boots, not settling for skinny jeans and an Abbey Road t-shirt. I write for a fashion magazine, dammit. That's more than Anne Hathaway's job. Forty miles later "Beautiful Day" is playing and I'm still picturing myself in Gongini and Monse while running between NYFW shows as I pull up to my usual parking place a block up from my coffee shop.
The best thing about being a barista is coffee. I love coffee, almost as much as I love my boyfriend. And I love it even more since taking this job at the By and By. An order for a Galway Girl, Irish Cream Mocha special, comes up and I set up a mug with chocolate syrup and Irish cream, set up two shots and grab a cruet of milk for the steamer. I lower the wand into the milk and turn up the temperature, watching as the liquid swirls into an ivory whirlpool.
I let my mind wander as the metal warms my fingers, distracting me from the hum of conversation, music and the grind of the coffee machine. I haven't written anything, aside from the occasional depressed journal entry, for weeks. Partially written manuscripts sit untouched in my laptop, a slightly true science fiction lies half written throughout journals scattered around my bookshelf. My blog hasn't been updated in over a month. My identity as a writer is fading and the worst part is I don't care. After all, what is writing but passion? Passion won't pay the bills or advance the career I want/need. But the longer I abstain from writing, my passion, and therefore my identity, is dying. My eyes drift to the expanding foam and my thoughts vanish much like my inclination to write has.
I don't expect anyone who isn't a barista or espresso addict to understand my obsession with microfoam. It's so essential to a good latte or cappuccino. I love when the foam becomes more solid than milky and can hold a design stenciled in cinnamon. (I rarely do that, I just don't have the patience to keep the cinnamon from going outside the lines.) The foam creeps up the wand, coating the increasingly warming cruet and tingling my fingers. When the metal becomes too hot to hold I turn off the heat, burning my finger tips slightly. Switch on the espresso, watch the shot cups fill with steaming, caramel liquid and pull them off as soon as the machine switches off.
The work day passes quickly, dissolving in some hundred or so espresso drinks and countless drip coffees. I pocket my tips and head out the door, breathing in air untinged by the scent of coffee. After I run errands and drive home I'll have a couple hours to apply to jobs and socialize with the family before calling David. As I hang up and turn out the lights, I see only a cycle repeating with no apparent end in sight.
But I can't let my passion die. Without passion we're bodies without souls, shades without a personality.
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