I want to tell him things, these things that keep me zoning out during movies, that keep me tucking my toes between couch cushions. 

1.

I want him to know how to trust me. I want my phone to vibrate at three a.m. I want his voice to be broken and spinning, just like the records in my ribcage. He holds secrets inside of himself with hidden pride. He knows it’s not cool to care too much. I want him to care so much that his rep takes a hit. I want him to listen so well that the mirrors in women’s bathrooms get jealous. I want his tears to burn my skin and I want him to hear the silence between pops when I crack my knuckles. I want him to believe every work I say, and I need him to pick out the lies like a dandelion in a field of daisies. 

2. 

I want every word he speaks to stain my skin, every breath he takes to force my spine to shudder. I want his hurt to cause my own pleasure, I want to deny his existence while I spin dreams behind my eyelids, wishing for a tomorrow filled with empty opinions and blind accusations. I want him to shout cuss words from across the parking lot, make people stare. I want them to stare as I reflect them with pale skin tossing hand gestures that won’t make a difference to his morals. I want to feel something definite and defined: this line must stop blurring every time I find myself uncomfortable. 

He has fallen asleep on my couch, but never my shoulder. He has ushered my home countless times, but never comes inside. Just leaves soon as I manage to force myself from the car. I know the words to his songs. Nicki Minaj and I couldn’t be more different, and yet she is my last connection. 

He’s hydroplaning, and I can’t seem to stop it. 

Yesterday was the Five Points Jazz Festival, an annual event that brings thousands of people into a neighborhood that is absolutely ripe with history and culture and all that snazzy nonsense we put on posters.

I walked into the shop at 1 and it was packed. Long line + live jazz + folding chairs everywhere; super exciting. So I grabbed a milk pitcher and started steaming milk to help out the other barista… my job was taken over when there was a complicated order. Or something. Or I just wasn’t steaming fast enough. That’s a possibility. At that point, I was greeting and taking orders: “Okay so a vanilla latte, what’s your name?” All of which was written on the cup and handed over to the bar, lined up. We looked and felt like an espresso assembly line. Everyone was trying to stay calm, but it was at least a little bit obvious that the baristas were just trying really hard not to break down. It would have been easy to leave the post and just let the drinks stack up.

Working register was more of a challenge than I had expected it to be, which is not to say it was a difficult job. It’s straightforward, the difference being that I had to truly interact with every person that came in. When your own head is a bit of a confused mess, it becomes really hard to count change. 

Working the bar. About halfway through my shift, I was put back on espresso bar. I was one of two that were there at the time who could legally (shop rules, need to be fully trained/retrained) work bar. So that was intimidating. Things I learned:

•  Stay as calm and as logical as possible
• If something goes wrong, don’t get upset. Just keep the grinder going and be patient. You know when you’ll have a free 30 seconds while shots are pulling to collect yourself/shot glasses/paper cups. 
• Some group heads are stupid and pop out of place for no reason. Clean that shit up quickly and efficiently, or else everything is going to get worse. Throw away the shot class that you broke when it popped out, else you’re going to worry about getting glass in your hands. 
• Don’t forget to wash your hands periodically. The coffee grounds will become a second skin. 
• Keep track of how many shots are in a drink. Establish a system with whoever is steaming milk, and stick to it. 

We didn’t serve as much gelato as we did last year (probably has something to do with the utter frigidness of the rain/clouds), but tons more coffee… so many lattes. 

Also, don’t forget to laugh and cheer with the guys who are playing jazz. It’ll make the whole day more fun. 
I only looked at the clock 3 or 4 times. Each time it was at least two hours later than I thought it was. That never happens.

Favorite part: when the guy who was MCing our live music gave a shout out to us baristas while I was pulling shots. It was nice to be recognized. 

-officially graduated

-getting my nose pierced this week

-going to FRANCE this summer 

It’s going to be good. I’m to focused on the concrete to write at the moment. I’ll get back to it eventually. 

The sentimentality breaks the floodgates down. My eyes can’t focus. There is too much body, too much heat, too many smiles. Fake. and Real. Music. Everything moving (constantly) with a consistent worry about what’s clean and what’s not, which doors have been closed and which ones were never washed. 

It’s a mess. But it makes me feel different than anything else ever really has. Four whole years later. It went by so oddly quickly… Soon enough I’ll have my nose pierced, might have a fixed gear bike, will be living in Portland with a double shot of espresso in my hand. I’ll miss something about this place. The feeling of desperation is something I never would have known without high school to instill it every few weeks (days).