{ coffee is just one }

Emily can smell coffee through walls. It can pull her from a coma. It can make her sleepwalk. Eyes closed, just following her nose. She'll Toucan Sam her way to the kitchen. Groggy. Floating. Glazed over. That cherry hair up in tufts. No makeup. Freckles. Spaghetti straps. Panties. Eyes still closed, feeling for walls with hands. She'll get there eventually. She'll feel for the mug that I placedthere. Three packets of equal and milk mixing at the bottom. Already waiting. Those eyes—still mostly closed. She'll find the coffee pot's handle with her fingers. She'll be careful not to burn herself or spill coffee on the counter. She'll be awake enough for that. But still mostly sleeping. Sleepwalking. Sleep-pouring. Sleep-picking-up-a-spoon. Sleep-stirring. She swears it isn't an act. Says it's the repetition. The frequency. Conditioning.

Years of coffee. Two years of the mug that I place there for her. Three packets of equal and milk mixing at the bottom. Already waiting.

Just one of our routines. And it doesn't get old. Day in. Day out. It feels wonderful. Comfortable.

Emily can take huge gulps of sweltering hot coffee. She'll wake instantly on the first of them. Coffee in the veins. Wide-eyed. Perked up. Pupils dilated. Sunlight through the front window. Then she'll take another gulp.

Emily and I drink our coffee in the morning. It's tranquility. Day in. Day out. It's so incredibly wonderful. Wonderful to be predictable. Just enough of the expected. Enough of the everyday in every single day. All of our little routines!

It gives the day contrast.

Because everything in between. Everything in every day that isn't routine. Well…