𝐃 𝐗 𝐌 𝐈 𝐍 𝐈 𝐐

image: Ophelia, 1872, Jean-Baptiste Bertrand

Little by little, I chip away. Tasks, mostly. Chores. Sometimes I do them twice. There is always more.

The world, meanwhile, continues: unmade, unmended.

I refuse to be performative about being an immigrant (in social media). So, I’ll just stick to drinking my lattes and supporting small, local businesses, and doing the best I can.

From the past few days:

• Revival Coffee is the kind of place that wants you to feel held. Small-town soft. Wooden chairs with cushions someone meant well about. People go there to hide in plain sight—locals mostly, with faces you learn without trying. The Americano is maybe the best I’ve ever had. The oat milk matcha latte tasted like candy. I like that about it. I like things that taste like reward. I’ll drink matcha either way, so long as I’m not forced to drink baking-grade matcha without any sugar in it.
• Catahoula Coffee is one of my favorite shops I never go to. It closes at 4pm. My husband refuses to take me. Not refuses exactly, just doesn’t. When he finally did, the espresso was burnt. I drank it anyway. Maybe next time it won’t be — whenever that is.
• Belmo Cafe‘s seating is alfresco. It is decent. It is a latte fit to be paired with pastries. These are the moments when I wish I was not a Celiac.
• Mother Tongue is slowly becoming the spot because the lattes are good. I don’t like the discomfort of being a local, though, but I guess I have to be.

I’m still feeling anti-social. I’ve been trying to exercise. That part’s good. I sweat, I stretch, I pretend I’m someone who finishes things. It reminds me I’m not made of air.