five a.m. is the time of day where everything is half-awake. the sun is just coming up. a grey musk covers everything. slowly. slowly. slowly, the world is waking up.
i sit outside, wearing nothing but a bathrobe. i stretch out my bare legs, i light a cigarette, i take a sip of coffee, and i breathe.
i braid my hair, taking all the time i need. and it's time that i have. it's five a.m. and i have nothing but time.
the time is all mine. there's no one to distract me, no one to dance for, no one to talk for. so i take as much time as i want with everything i do.
even making the coffee, i use slow deliberate movements. i pick up a spoon. i wipe the spoon. i scoop up some sugar. another spoon of sugar. a spoon of coffee powder. now just a little more. i pour in some milk. i stir it into a paste.
i pour in the hot water, taking a naive delight in the steam rising, the mixture changing colour, the aroma... i pour some more milk in. i absorb the texture of my beverage like i have never seen coffee before.
i stir it, slowly. slowly. slowly. i tap the spoon three times on the side of my mug. the spoon goes into the sink. i don't wash it because i don't care to right now.
right now, it's about the coffee. it's about the five a.m. coffee i am about to drink - not because i haven't slept yet, but because it's five a.m. and i can pretend i've never drank coffee before.
the coffee i have perched on the step next to me as i smoke my cigarette. they're menthol cigarettes. i always feel like i have to justify why i smoke menthol. i like the way they taste, i like the way they don't turn your mouth into an ash tray.
i sit outside, wearing nothing but a bathrobe. i stretch out my bare legs, i light a cigarette, i take a sip of coffee, and i breathe.
i braid my hair, taking all the time i need. and it's time that i have. it's five a.m. and i have nothing but time.
the time is all mine. there's no one to distract me, no one to dance for, no one to talk for. so i take as much time as i want with everything i do.
even making the coffee, i use slow deliberate movements. i pick up a spoon. i wipe the spoon. i scoop up some sugar. another spoon of sugar. a spoon of coffee powder. now just a little more. i pour in some milk. i stir it into a paste.
i pour in the hot water, taking a naive delight in the steam rising, the mixture changing colour, the aroma... i pour some more milk in. i absorb the texture of my beverage like i have never seen coffee before.
i stir it, slowly. slowly. slowly. i tap the spoon three times on the side of my mug. the spoon goes into the sink. i don't wash it because i don't care to right now.
right now, it's about the coffee. it's about the five a.m. coffee i am about to drink - not because i haven't slept yet, but because it's five a.m. and i can pretend i've never drank coffee before.
the coffee i have perched on the step next to me as i smoke my cigarette. they're menthol cigarettes. i always feel like i have to justify why i smoke menthol. i like the way they taste, i like the way they don't turn your mouth into an ash tray.
