Ten.Seven Hundred & Seventy-Nine
No milk for making scones. I run to the store to get cereal and milk and orange juice. No one will be upset by a box of Lucky Charms.
The slow coming of morning. The sound of sprinklers. The pink of the Crepe Myrtle tree glowing in the morning sun.
That solid feeling of clarity.
The smell of wet concrete and the surprising way in which it grounds me.
“Good morning.” “Good morning.” “Good morning.” “Good morning.” “Good morning.”
A.M. homes reads Margaret Atwood. I need to read more Atwood.
She’s leaving Atellier Crenn to be the sommelier at NOMA. Tattooed arms. The most beautiful French accent. A European coolness. She tells me to message her anytime I want to go to the restaurants in San Francisco. She seems sad about leaving in spite of that adventure that lies ahead. I can relate.
I tell them that there’s a way to get the wines there, that he just needs to ask the right people.
I stay for a post-shift drink to wait out a little bit of the traffic. Sauvignon Blanc and chicharones. A little bit of Nth Merlot. Today was such a nice day that it makes me a little sad to know that I’ll be leaving.
Endings and beginnings.