I swept the fiery red, maple leaf that fell exactly onto the “o” of the welcome mat onto a drainage by the street. The gentle autumn breeze would carry it around the neighborhood, twirling under the unpredictable sky, until a raindrop pins it down into the ground. And there it would lie, slowly dissolving into a tint of brown magnified by the morning dew glistening on freshly mowed grass, mere traces of a scent. Its fate seemed as inevitable as the short-lived life of cappuccino foam.

I like lattes with its potential for artistic imagination and the often hilarious discrepancy between mental expectations and the physical outcome. Though the formula is one-third espresso and two-thirds steamed milk, no two cups are ever exact replicas. I watched as the last drop of milk made its mark on the heavy, fatty surface and began enjoying its uniqueness. I don’t have to be poetic or narcissistic to realize that every cup I make is exclusive. Taking a sip, I started to sway against my favorite La La Land soundtrack in the speaker, waiting. I, too, would dance, though there is no wind.

Sunlight shone through the dusty window panes, solidified into a stereoscopic, transparent silhouette, and glared off the pastries’ plastic wrappings, as if it was no longer a blueberry muffin inside the glistening, artificial exterior.

It was a regular morning and an ordinary cup of coffee, with all that it entails.