A strangely, warm and pleasant February day. Warm enough to walk in the sun without a heavy coat and breathe the fresh air. I do my best to suppress how alarming it is to feel the heat on my face in the dead of winter, but the anxiety still creeps in.
This is not normal.
I wandered in the sun with nowhere to go and ended up in the industrial area near my apartment. An area once checkered with dormant warehouses and lofts now houses nouveau storefronts and street art. Chic coffee shops, trendy boutiques, and craft-breweries line the street. I'm not one for fancy coffees and lattes (more of a tea person - no sugar or milk, please and thank you). But it's a strange day and I'm feeling out of balance.
I stop into the black-tiled coffee shop and order a latte. I don't quite fit in, but I am by no means a stranger either. I sit outside on a bench painted like Starry Night. I watch groups of hipsters shuffle by, arguing about what is and is not an authentic experience.
I swirl the latte in my hand and look down at the bits of coffee grounds floating around in the cup. I notice a piece of wet paper, halfway adhered to the pavement. It's a note card which reads:
Amanda,
Sorry it took so long for me to return these. Thanks for lending them to me. I really enjoyed them both, especially the Graham Greene. Hope all is well.
-Keith
Keith must have slipped the notecard in the cover of the book and it fell out on Amanda's way home. Or they had coffee here together for the first time in weeks and Amanda left the books behind by accident. Or Amanda stopped to sit on Starry Night and threw the note on the ground in rage or pain or apathy. I have a strict no-lending policy for my personal library. I cannot stand when friends do not return books in the same condition they went out (or even return them at all). If anyone sees Amanda, let her know I want to buy her coffee and hear her thoughts on book lending. I take a photo of the lonely note as a reminder.
I finish my latte and drop my cup - marked compostable - in the trash bin with a Throw It On the Compost Heap sign taped to the lid. A snarky sign on the trash bin next to it says Throw It In a Landfill, You Idiot. I lift the lid and toss in my crumpled napkin.
Crossing the street in this area can feel a bit like real-life Frogger. It was not originally designed for pedestrians and there aren't many crosswalks. I power walk across the street to avoid getting hit by an Uber. I head straight into a labyrinth of barren streets, junkyards, cement pits and sand mounds.
Somewhat lost, I make a right at the next corner. Parked along the sidewalk is a line of damaged cars outside a body shop. An elderly man in a gray jumpsuit hobbles from car to car with a thick, white marker. The car nearest to me has it the worst: shattered windshield, crushed front end, both front tires missing. I watch the old man write on the passenger's side window Total Loss.
I hope everyone is okay, I tell myself. I can feel a scraping feeling crawl over my skin and burrow into my bones.
Halfway home, the sun sneaks behind the horizon and the caffeine gives me a boost. A chill sets in again. It's a reminder that it should be snowing right now. I should have worn a coat, but my sweater will have to do.