I crave coffee every day.
On my morning commute to work, around the corner from my office there is a Chevron gas station that I habitually stop at to aid my caffeine addiction.
Every day, I am startled by the same “GOOD MORNING” screeched by a jolly middle-aged woman with unkempt hair and freshly done nails. She sits behind the register, in the worn-out chair she brought from home, making sure to remind everyone that it is a good day.
I gravitate to the coffee making station to pour two raw-sugars packets, three creamers and the “good morning” labeled coffee into my cup. I drag myself to the counter and I’m met with a beaming smile.
Suddenly, I’m attacked by a barrage of questions which I am quick to answer on the pretense of rushing to work.
I see her smile waver and she picks up her frail hands to type in my dollar coffee into the register.
She looks at me kindly as she waves goodbye.
When I leave another customer walks in.
“GOOD MORNING” I hear her smile.