Atlas

The Sun, The Moon, The Coffee

Some people say coffee is the elixir of life.

The variety of flavours, sizes, and milk choices proves just that. Quite apart from the fact that every street has to harbour at least a dozen coffee shops nowadays - people can't seem to manage to get up ten minutes earlier to brew their own coffee.

Well, I can't really complain, considering I am standing in front of one of those green-labeled coffee shops right now. My morning was spectacularly bad, and I still feel the tremble in my fingers triggered by that disaster.

Not only did I sleep two minutes longer than usual this morning, the battery of my alarm clock died, meaning I woke up at 5:57 instead of the usual 5:55, but then I also faced the disaster of a broken filter in my french press, producing a rather unenjoyable brown liquid that looked and smelled like coffee, but definitely existed in a different universe than the drink I'm used to.

And now I'm here, looking at the glass door of that famous coffee shop everyone keeps talking about. A colleague of mine said it would be good for me since they're trained to take special orders.

I hate being one of them. One of those people that make others wait because their order is so rudely specific. I can literally hear the groans behind me already, but I can't help it. I need coffee, and I'm already half an hour behind on my first cup - I have to get in there.

Pulling my sweater over my fingers, I push the metal door handle and let myself in, the sudden warmth of the shop misting my glasses in a matter of seconds. I quickly look for the queue and step a foot behind the last person in line, unable to see who or what it is due to the fog surrounding my visual aids.

Reaching inside my briefcase I pull out a cleaning cloth which I then use to finally regain my vision, but the second I put my glasses back on my nose does someone stumble into me from behind, the movement sending me forward and crashing into what I now see is a woman in business attire right in front of me.

"The fuck?!"

She turns around and glares at me, and I only raise my hand, trying to stammer a response, "I- I- I'm sorry, Ma'am."

I wipe my palm on my jeans, trying to hide the nervous tremble in my fingers as I wait for a response, but the woman with chocolate brown hair and even darker skin just rolls her eyes before she speaks, "Yeah, no, Maurice. Sorry, some idiot just ran into me."

Her words make me widen my eyes, but I don't dare respond to her. Not that I'd get a chance, because the second she finishes her sentence she turns around again, tapping wildly on her phone while she speaks to Maurice on the other end of the line.

I turn around to see who bumped into me, but there's no one there anymore. They must have been embarrassed for their behavior. Either that, or this woman scared that person off, too.

For some reason I can't help but watch said woman as soon as I turn around, the way her dark locks bounce when she shakes or nods her head to the person on the other end of the line is almost melodic. I also notice that her attire is meticulously clean, no crease or stain in sight.

God, I wish the kids I work with dressed this way, but that wish will probably never come true. Instead, I will have to deal with dirty pants, shirts, gloves... Well, dirty everything, basically, for the rest of my life.

I can almost hear my mother's voice in my head, saying, It was your choice, Idris. You could have become a doctor.

And I almost have to laugh from that thought, me in scrubs in some hospital, trying to cure patients while I'm a patient of some sorts myself.

Hah.

The woman in front of me suddenly turns around, letting the phone glide in her pocket when she raises an eyebrow at me, pulling the fancy white headphones out of her ears as she studies me.