The coffeeshop has a quiet hum to it, rising to a buzz by the time late Friday afternoon rolls around. The Gen Z barista tells me the payment system is down so it's cash only and he jots down the sales on the back of a brown paper bag. An enormous photo of Norm Macdonald graces the far wall and you wonder if we're still doing irony. Air conditioning makes you forget the dripping temperature outside. The report from the motherland is a chill and asks you to pack thermal underwear. Nowhere is perfect. There's a knot on the side of your neck that yells at you to slow down, to take a break, but new deadlines appear on the horizon and you chase whatever comes next. Your father says watch out, you got those broken genes from me, and you think how easy it is to recognize your flaws when it seems too late to do anything about them.
You try to remember it is not too late for you to do anything
about anything.
A slight break appears in the corner of your eye.
You decide to catch the wave. Decide you aren't dead yet.
Despite how it seems, lately.
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