Counting what I had
A couple weeks back, I stood near the grocery exit with my hands full of small coins. I had asked a few people for change, and my chest felt tight the way it does when you are trying to make every little bit count. I kept the black beanie pulled low and my denim jacket closed, even though the day was warm enough to make my palms sweat. I counted twice because I did not want to walk into the coffee spot and find out I was short. The coins were warm and sticky in my palm, but they were enough. 🙂
Walking up to the counter
When I went inside, the air felt cooler and a little too bright. I stood in line and rehearsed what I wanted to say, even though it was only a basic hot coffee. When it was my turn, I put the coins on the counter slowly, embarrassed by the little stack. The cashier did not sigh or look behind me. She just waited. That small patience helped more than I can explain.
A cup handed gently
She handed me the coffee without making a show of it. No fake smile, no hard stare, just a simple cup passed over like I was any other person having a normal morning. I said thank you, and my voice came out quieter than I wanted. She nodded and told me to take my time. I think she meant it. For a second, I felt less like someone asking for space and more like someone allowed to have it. ☕
Sitting with it outside
I took the cup outside because sitting inside made me nervous. I found a place where I could see the door but not feel boxed in. The first sip was hot and bitter in a good way, better than anything I usually make near the overpass. I watched people hurry past with bags and phones, and I tried not to feel like I was borrowing time. I still kept checking how long I had been there. Even when a moment is kind, my body remembers to be careful.
I finished the coffee slower than I needed to. It was not just the warmth in my hands. It was the fact that someone treated me gently when I was already braced for impatience. Little things like that stay with me longer than they probably should.