idiosyncrasy

Not too much has changed.

“An Americano with two sugars please.”

Just the way you like it.

The waitress smiles politely and leaves. I look out the window waiting for something peculiar to look at. Thatʼs me, always more interested in strangers than in the people I know.

Or myself, for that matter.

My idiosyncrasies involve biting the cuticles off my fingers, bouncing my knee up and down, looking at strangers intently until they feel uncomfortable and look back at me with equal intensity.

I like my coffee cold but when the waitress arrives I canʼt help but remember your obsession with piping hot coffee. The bitter aftertaste that you think you liked, but really it was just the feeling which came along with the burning sensation on your tongue. You thought I didnʼt know.

So I drink it hot. I burn my tongue and I wonʼt romanticize misery; it feels terrible. Another idiosyncratic act I canʼt stop myself from doing.

Do you not do things sometimes that you know youʼd rather not do, but go ahead with it anyway, simply because of the wistful nostalgia it brings with itself?

I know I do.

Do you too?

Once I drain my mug empty I look at its insides. The minute cracks on the ceramic resemble a complex cityʼs map; intricate design of confusion.

I wonder: do they resemble the ones on my heart too?

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