Image: © Anonymous
Author: Anonymous
The pitter-patter of the raindrops wakes you this morning, just like they did the last. Reluctantly, just like you did the last, you roll over and check your alarm clock with an exasperated sigh. With fifteen minutes before its dreaded chime, it’s no longer worth you trying to squeeze in a few extra minutes of sleep.
You quickly hop under the shower – cold and humbling – before you get dressed, grab your stuff and head out. The library is shut on New Year’s Sunday, so your only option for relative peace is the café in town. It’s not ideal, but Starbucks is open every day of the year, so you take it. They have good chai, and you have enough points for a free drink, anyway.
The rain has slowed to the occasional droplet of water – it’s not even worth taking an umbrella at this point, so you don’t. You have far too many books to carry to justify lugging around an umbrella that you’re not going to use, so you leave it at home. Between your books, computer, and the general weight of your overthinking, you don’t want the extra burden, anyway. You’ll take the wet hair, if worse comes to worst.
You decide to walk to town instead of taking the train. It’s a ten-minute difference and it grounds you. Walking through the little path through the woods is soothing, it’s one of the little pleasures you get. It’s almost magical. It reminds you of hiking and the joys that it brings.
So off to work you go on this rainy January morning, through the woods, to the train station, and across the road to the Starbucks. It’s unusual, though, almost eerie. No one is there. Not the weekday crowd, not the occasional driving lesson, not even guys in trench coats hanging around behind the station, waiting for their clients.
You cross the road, stroll into the café. You’re the first one in, this time. You smile, as you make for your favourite bench, the one with the bigger table and the plug socket. You go and get your drink and joke with the barista. She’s sweet and asks you what you’re doing there on this rainy Sunday morning. Studying, you reply. You have exams. Ah yes, she sees the students, recognises them, recognised you as well. The regulars, you joke. The ones who come in at stupid o’clock in the morning and leave close to closing time. Even on Sundays. You both joke about working on a Sunday, how only the two of you do it. And the other baristas and students. You joke how even the regular train station drug dealers are in the comfort of their own homes. How even the drug dealers take the day off on a rainy Sunday morning.
You joke, and you go back to work, warmed by your chai and the light-hearted conversation. You go back to your makeshift desk and plunge into your texts. The drug dealers may be taking the day off, but you do not allow yourself such luxuries. It’s worth it, though, and you smile through your revisions. The texts, reading them and analysing them, as long and complicated as they may be, bring you joy.