Trying to write something for En101: Attempt #1
I amble through the concrete pathway, surrounded by leaves of yellow hues cradled by the wind. I enjoy this spectacle in the lightness of my walk, probably caused by my lack of sleep which led to my dreamlike stupor.
What was my dream again, the other night? I cannot remember, as usual, for how rare do I actually wake up, with the dream in my recollection? All that is left is black static, the remainder of what is left after the jostle of my morning routine has devoured that dream out of memory. Maybe I am better off left with my thoughts running loose, streaming out of nowhere as I am conscious, perhaps even when half-conscious. Daydreaming flows much like 'night-dreams,' anyway.
I am lost in my own reverie again, and I command my legs to walk faster, while being careful not to stumble in my drowsiness with the huge load I am carrying; it is another school day, and I need all those things in my polkadot backpack, being the ready-for-anything pack rat that I am. I adjust my glasses for better vision, and as I dip my hands into that clutter of a bag, I try to make out the figure of a cylindrical container, an important part of my daily arsenal: my tumbler. I take it out as I pass by the cafeteria entrance, nearing a stall popular for its broad selection of refreshments. I hand over my container, just mentioning the drink size -- medium, just big enough to invigorate my senses -- and take out the exact change.
I need not even mention my drink of choice; the concessionaires knew it the moment I stepped into their vision.
***
"Coffee?" I ask as I politely confirm the order of this regular customer of ours: a small girl wearing glasses, peculiarly always buying the same thing. My co-staff member receives her tumbler and pours in enough to fill three-quarters of the container; I myself taught him how to estimate the amount of juice to give the customer, this a hard skill to master, as these tumblers always come in different shapes and sizes.
I get the now-filled tumbler, screw on its lid, and hand it back to the current customer, and as she motions to leave I remember to say "Thank you ma'am! Please come again!" as instructed by our manager; courtesy to customers does give them a reason to come back. Of course, this is accompanied with my rehearsed smile, my cheeks made sore by this sustainment of seeming cheerfulness. But perhaps in this feigned act, I get myself to believe it as true for a moment; to escape reality, even just for that moment.
I watch the girl with the polka-dot bag (too large for her to carry, actually) as she walks away and settles down at a table nearby; this an already established pattern, as she always does this daily, maybe three or four times each day.
Soon enough, another throng of thirsty Ateneans line up at the counter, obscuring my view of this familiar girl; but what does it matter? Business is business. She is just one of our many customers.
*** I see a wave hello at some distance from our table, and I recognize it as my friend, the one from the other college block, though oddly the only one with the same schedule as ours. But we are all from the same course of applied mathematics and finance, and most of us math majors are friends with non-blockmates. She greets us first and we, in unison, respond cordially. I offer her the empty seat at our table; besides, we are all waiting for Filipino 12, our next class. That would take two hours, give or take.
We pass the time with mere chit chat over snacks, as people usually do during break times, and she brings out that distinctive drink of hers. I tease her addiction to that drink; is that the only thing that keeps her alive nowadays? She responds to my hinting quite clearly: first year college is, again, bearing down on her, and she needs something to perk her up for the rest of the day. I just nod in agreement; people do need something to help them 'survive' these days, I'll give her that.
Conversations and laughter fill in our waiting period before resuming academics, each minute quickly emptying her drink more and more. An hour or so passes, and she quickly excuses herself, with wallet in one hand, the now empty tumbler in the other. In a few minutes, she comes back with that same drink in the container filled save about one-fourth from the top, and maybe also with a waffle from that stall at the corner of the cafeteria. But more often than not, it's really just the coffee.
She's so predictable, this addicted friend of mine.