It's a Good Day
The steam curled upward like a habit it had kept for years. I didn’t notice it at first—not until the morning light caught it sideways, and the shape turned from cloud to ribbon. Something about that line made the table feel anchored. Outside, someone passed by with a bouquet tucked under their arm, wrapped in pale brown paper. I couldn’t smell the flowers, but I imagined them just the same. Jasmine, maybe. Or something else that never shouts but always stays. I stirred the coffee slowly, not to mix but to listen. The sound is different when the cup is wide. It echoes gently, as if the ceramic wants to reply but isn’t sure what the question was. The sunlight warmed only half the table, leaving the other half in a cool shadow. I moved my notebook just enough so the edge touched the line between them. That line, I think, knows how to stay still better than most of us. From the kitchen came a soft clang—distant enough not to interrupt, close enough to reassure. I’ve always liked the...