Today I had coffee.

Twice.

It was a good day.

It is a good life.

I left class early to get my first coffee, hoping it would make me feel more alert and help me forget that I only slept for four hours.

I stood in line, the barista swiping my card. The first swipe done too slowly, the second, too quickly, and the third: just right.

I felt like Goldilocks.

No porridge, just coffee.

Fortunately, it wasn’t too cold, because I ordered it iced.

The first time I ordered coffee today, I waited, anxiously checking my watch, afraid to walk into class late and draw curious eyes to the shutting door at the back of the room.

As if no one has ever been late to a class.

I got my coffee, condensation on the plastic cup sticking to my palm, and powerwalked to class.

I sat down.

I took a sip and held it in my mouth, the roasted taste seeping into my tongue.

All too soon I slurped at the bottom of the cup, ice barricading the deep green straw.

I sighed.

It was a long morning filled with lectures on topics I don’t quite understand.

Is this what learning is supposed to feel like?

My eyelids grew heavy, chin nodding to meet my collar.

Class ended and I ventured back to my room, trying to smile at tourists on the way.

They just raised their eyebrows and looked away.

I sighed.

I napped, feeling guilty for not being the productive student I’m supposed to be, but content as the daylight faded from the window,

a cloudy evening descending on campus.

It was a good day.

It is a good life.

I went to a concert alone.

I took the subway.

When I got to the venue, I stood in line.

The man behind me put out his cigarette and mumbled about forgetting his gum.

I offered him a piece.

He took it.

His name was Mauricio.

(It’sItalian, he thinks)

I told him my name and that this was my first time seeing this band.

He was amazed when the security guard asked for IDs in exchange for a red wristband and I said I wasn’t 21.

We parted ways at the door.

I didn’t have coffee there.

To be honest, I don’t think I would have had the personal space to hold a cup.

Hours passed.

Music played.

I smiled.

I laughed.

I danced.

It was a good day.

It is a good life.

I walked to the subway station, shivering in the night air, hands balled up in my pockets.

I put in earbuds and got on the train.

I smiled at the people on the train.

They looked away.

I sighed and changed the song.

I got off of the train, and stopped by Starbucks.

There wasn’t a line.

I ordered another iced coffee. Grande, flat white.

Why can’t it just be called a medium?

This time, I swiped my card.

I remembered when I used to only pay in cash.

Time passes so quickly these days.

I hummed as I waited for my drink.

“Cleanna.”

I grabbed it, said thank you, and almost ran into a man who had stopped abruptly.

He was lighting his cigarette in the doorway.

He didn’t even notice me.

I sighed and walked back to my dorm room.

I climbed three floors and missed the keyhole as I tried to unlock the door.

I chuckled.

I sat down at my desk, second iced coffee at my elbow.

Why do I trust myself to not knock it over?

I sipped until my second cup was empty, the ice lonely at the bottom, slowly transforming to liquid.

I looked at the pictures I took at the concert; I smiled, then closed my eyes.

I still had a large amount of homework to do.

But it was okay because, today I breathed,

I lived,

I napped,

I smiled,

I laughed,

I danced,

And

I had coffee.

Twice.

It was a good day.

It is a good life.