Day In and Day Out

I always see this woman at Starbucks. She’s probably in her seventies, with shortish blondish hair. She wears the same clothes—red blazer, black turtleneck, red-and-black flowered knee-length skirt, black tights, tall black leather boots. She orders the same thing: a venti decaf and a venti whipped cream. I’ve never seen her sip the coffee, but she’s always digging into that whipped cream with a spoon. Everyday, she brings a worn wad of magazines (Time, People, an occasional newspaper section), that she flips through while spooning her whipped cream.

One of the Starbucks baristas is in my Spanish class, so I asked what she knew about this customer. The barista said her name is Beverly. She had a stroke, and doesn’t speak. The baristas know her, and know what to fix for her when she approaches the register. Although her movements are a little jerky she has pretty good motor skills, which allow her to come to Starbucks every day, in the same clothes, where she orders the same thing and reads the same magazines.

Sometimes a routine's constricting. Or at least not exciting. I walk to Starbucks and write nearly every day, no matter how many rejections I receive. It may not be exciting, but it is satisfying. It occurs to me that I should be happy for this routine, to be able to do it.