I took a different route to the coffee shop this morning—left instead of right at the intersection—and ended up in a pocket neighborhood I'd walked past a hundred times but never through. The light hit differently here, filtering through plane trees that hadn't been pruned into submission like the ones on the main boulevard. Actual dappled shade. I'd forgotten that was a real thing and not just a phrase food bloggers use to describe outdoor seating.
There was a woman watering her window boxes, and when I slowed down to admire the overflowing nasturtiums, she said, "They're bullies, you know. Choke out everything else." She said it fondly, the way you'd describe a badly behaved cat. I asked if she minded, and she shrugged. "Orange is orange. Can't argue with that." Which felt like unexpectedly solid life advice at 8:47 on a Tuesday.
I kept walking and realized I'd left my usual coffee order behind in my muscle memory. Standing at the counter of a different café—one with actually uncomfortable stools, which I respected—I blanked completely. The barista waited. I said, "Flat white?" like I was guessing on a test. It arrived tasting like every flat white I've ever had, which raises the question: what exactly have I been optimizing for all these years?