The sidewalk outside the corner bakery smelled like butter and yeast at 7:43 this morning, which is either the best or worst thing to encounter when you're trying to convince yourself that black coffee counts as breakfast. I lost that argument. Walked out with a cardamom bun that left sugar crystals on my jacket sleeve.
I've been experimenting with taking different routes to the same coffee shop—change one variable, see what shifts. Today I turned left instead of right at the bookstore, which added maybe four minutes but replaced my usual view of the parking garage with a narrow alley where someone had painted a mural of oversized houseplants. The monstera leaves were taller than I am. There's something oddly reassuring about public art that doesn't take itself too seriously.
Halfway down the block, I passed two people arguing gently about whether the place on the corner sold "coffee" or "burnt water pretending to be coffee." One of them was holding a to-go cup from that exact place. The loyalty of a regular customer is a strange and beautiful thing.