Changing of the seasons

Hoodies, scarves, hats, sweaters, jackets and gloves are packed neatly in a box in my basement all summer. The box is labeled for easy access when the time comes.

I stand in line at my neighborhood coffee shop. The heat is on for perhaps the first time of the season and it’s a welcomed change from the breezy day outside. It’s warm and inviting and it makes me yawn. Today, there’s a line to order and the three people in front of me say they were thinking of hot coffees when they were walking by but changed their mind while waiting inside.

A cute blonde behind the counter jokes that it’s all part of the plan.

Ice coffee sales are down,” she says. “We had to do something.” She smiles at me.

“I’ll stick with a hot cup.” I say. “My first in awhile.”

“Congrats,” she says, probably sarcastically.

I opened the box in my basement a few days ago and brought it upstairs to my apartment. It now sits open and dismantled in the middle of my room. The room itself in a state of transition that reflects the changing of the seasons, with piles of shorts and t-shirts scattered around, waiting to be folded up and packed into the same box, label changed and put back in the basement.

Today, I am mourning the loss of my glasses. Left in a bar late Saturday night as I caught up with old friends and purchased in a vintage glasses shop in the East village in March of this year I wonder if I’ll be able to replace them.

It’s strange timing because for the past month I’ve been on the set of Opus Jazz, getting up early, staying up late, moving from location to location all around the city. My glasses packed carefully in their carrying case. Funny that it happened now that my life is significantly less busy and crazy. But, I let my guard down.

I lose glasses. It’s just one of the things that I do. I lost this pair and I’ve lost every pair I’ve ever owned before them. I try to stay positive about the whole situation though I am fairly disappointed with myself.

I stand silently, scarf wrapped tightly around my neck, piping hot coffee in hand—waiting patiently for my turn to add milk and sugar. There are three of us, strangers, all trying to fulfill the same goal. Them with ice coffee, me with hot. We awkwardly move around each other in an odd polite dance. We don’t speak.

A step forward, a step backward.

We all have different orders of operation. Mine, the coffee, sugar, whole milk then stir. Hers, skim milk, simple sugar, the coffee then stir. His, half and half, no sugar.

I clamp the lid down and step back outside. The wind picks up. I take a sip.

I appreciate the fading warm weather—it may be the last for a while. I enjoy the dwindling sunlight, taking advantage of the shortening hours of the day.

Sitting at my desk later, I swirl that same coffee cup counter clockwise by the lid.

Ice coffee I drink quickly but hot coffee I savor.

Zac Stuart-Pontier