Good Morning  

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.