I took my cup of coffee from the window like any other day. The young woman, a long red braid flowing down one shoulder, beamed out at me. I thanked her and told her to have a good day, as I had countless other women leaning out of countless other drive-through windows.
She replied, “It’s a beautiful day.”
I settled my cup in the hole between the seats expressly made for such things. As my attention turned back to the wheel, I glanced up toward the sky and around at the view. Clouds hung in a monotonous flat grey blanket. Trees stood silently as a few flakes drifted aimlessly toward the earth. Buildings echoed the color of the asphalt surrounding them.
It wasn’t a beautiful day through the lens that the rest of us were seeing it. An immediate smile came to my lips. New love. I’m quite certain there isn’t anything else that brings sunshine to a grey day like it, and her eyes shone with it. I was at once full of hope and sympathy for her. Passion is a fire; thrilling and bright, but it burns hot. It isn’t until the flames have died and the embers glow that we can settle into love’s warmth, and grey days are nothing more than grey days again.
In the minute while we waited for the barista to finish making my latte, she glowingly suggested I try the Cinnamon Almond Milk Macchiato. And why not? Next time,
“I’ll take what she’s having.”
Peace . . .