A Dream this Early in the Morning?

This morning went a little different. Different in a way that might seem wrong, I suppose a in way it might seem the stuff of dreams.

A morning finds me downtown at the “early” hour of eight A.M. I use quotes around the word “early” because I think that is what I am supposed to do to hint that the meaning of the word is a little different than what you might expect, well, it was for me this morning. Imagine, if you will, stepping from your car in the beautiful early morning sun, a mix of spontaneous and stored up potential desire moves you to step toward and reach for the door handle of a downtown art store. It is almost a voluntary motion, so familiar is the short tug your arm makes on the door handle.  The door does not give.

A quick peek at my phone and it is eight-oh-three, but the store is dark and looks lonely. The sign says, open at nine.

I take a quick scan of the street around me. The store windows were all dark inside.

Sun still shining? Check. Cars still moving from street to street? Check.  Car sounds. Check. Smells, like morning?  Close enough.

Eight-oh-four.

Coffee and books. Might have been two thoughts, but I really think it was one.  I suspect most people would have stopped at the thought of “coffee”.  If your mind, at eight-oh-four in the morning, also goes to “books”, “coffee and books”, or even “books and coffee”, well, we have something in common.

The walk down the street started a quick debate in my head: which would I enjoy more -  a bookstore with no tasty coffee to sip on, or a coffee shop with no tasty published item to think on? As my feet reached the deciding corner, I crossed the street toward the bookstore.  A plan was set in motion: pick up tasty item, carry said item to coffee shop, purchase second tasty item, and luxuriate in the comfortable smell, noise, and commotion of the coffee shop till that now so special and required nine-oh-clock hour arrives.

The cool air made the half block walk to the bookstore very enjoyable. My hand reached for the familiar handle of the playbill laden door, but rather than the satisfying pull and weight, the rush of old-book smell wafting past my ears, my arm just tugged back rejected.

A mind can be quick translator.  Mine translated into arm language only what my eyes could answer: opens at nine.

My mind reached for a “plan B”. Plan B? Plan B. Ears: only cars. Nose: no real signs of life, no coffee anyways.

Rarely does my nose get any thanks.

The half block walk back to the deciding corner would have been just as enjoyable as the one from it to the bookstore, but one thought: if the coffee shop was closed, I certainly would need to give myself a pinch. How could this not be a dream?  Maybe, it was even a nightmare.

My hand slowly reached for the worn-polished brass door handle.  My arm moved with a touch of trepidation, it had been hurt before. The smell of coffee brought all doubt to rest.

I write to you within the comfy clang and ding of a half full coffee shop, my breakfast burrito before me half eaten, and my breve tastily iced.

It is 9-oh-2. Don’t pinch me.