You've got to get out of the house

By the time you were finished in the shower, you had decided to go for a jog. You needed to get out of the house, away from your husband, and clear your head. The bedroom was empty, and you could hear the lawnmower running in the back yard.

You spent five minutes looking for your sports bra until you gave up, then threw your favorite weekend shirt on over the bra you'd tried in the shower. It was an old Space Wars design that swapped the 'exotic alien love interest' and the 'straight white male protagonist' from their classic pose, so he was draped over her leg as she held a laser-sword toward the sky. You slipped downstairs and fished through your shopping bags from the mall, slipping on a pair of stretchy leggings you could run in. Five minutes later you were halfway down the block, wearing your favorite sneakers and munching on a piece of cold pizza.

You'd been running at an easy jog through the suburb for less than ten minutes when you spotted another figure ahead on the sidewalk, and sped a bit to catch up.

"Carli?" You asked, "good morning!" You struggled to think of anything to say as you pulled up to her, then added, "Thanks for calling Greg the other night when I fainted. Aimee probably would have just stared at me."

Carli started at your approach, then seemed to calm. You remembered her being jittery last time, too. "Hey Stephanie," she greeted, sounding a bit breathless, "don't mention it. Nice shirt! You jog often?" A thoughtful expression crossed her face. "You're from the west coast, right? Are you a vegetarian?"

The question seemed random, but you smiled back at her, rounding a corner. "Only when money's tight. You?"

Clearly your answer disappointed her. "I'm vegan. Whole foods, fresh produce..." She paused, caught her breath, and added "...body is a temple and all that. I don't judge though!"

For a health nut, she wasn't keeping pace with you very well. Admittedly your legs were longer than hers though. "Why do you ask?"

"I was just thinking about your fainting the other night. Blood sugar, processed foods, you know?" Her words were coming between small gasps for air, so you slowed to a walk to help her out.

"You think I fainted because of my bad diet?" It seemed unlikely, but not impossible. You stopped walking, looking around and realizing you recognized this part of the block. "Isn't this Aimee's place?"

"Right on both counts." Carli looked grateful for the break, and promptly settled into a resting posture, hands on her knees. "She's here, and I'm at the brick house on 3rd." She gestured with a jerk of her chin. "Read about blood sugar, watch documentaries. Then let me know when you want to buy my book, 'The Grass & Roots Movement.'"

You grinned at the wordplay. "Clever. So the book signing yesterday... The author was you? I thought you just didn't want to go shopping with Aimee. How did it go?"

Her mildly self-satisfied expression fell. "Not great, but thanks for asking. It's a hard sell around here, asking folks to give up their fast food and coffee and start backyard farms." You weren't surprised. "Anyway I've gotta head home. If you go a bit farther down this way though, you'll find the library where I did my signing yesterday. There's a new coffee shop that just opened there, too. It's a neat little strip mall."

"Coffee?" You couldn't help asking with a smile, "but you just said you'd given that-"

"Hey, *you* haven't, and it still smells good!" she laughed, "even if there's not a sustainably-harvested bean for sale within a two states' radius of this hell hole."

Her laugh held the same 'hipster scorn' you'd been annoyed about back home. *Small world.* you thought. You'd traveled halfway across the country, but people were still basically the same. 'Hell hole' seemed a bit harsh though.

You said your goodbyes and went in opposite directions, padding your way toward the strip mall Carli had mentioned. You reached it after only a few minutes' run. Four shops and a gas station clustered around a small park, with parking spread out on the far side of each building. The library was tiny, tucked between an electronics shop and the gas station. You eyed it, considering, then slipped into the coffee shop.

The sign over the door read "ToASTEd" in big loopy letters arrayed so that it looked more like "taste." It was clearly part of a chain; the signs were all new and expensive, and there were logos prominently displayed on the cups, cup guards, and even the coffee machine themselves. The baristas all fit the same "perky, artsy college kid" mold.

As you stepped inside, you caught the familiar aroma of roasting beans, and the rush of fond memories that came with it. In a lot of ways, coffee smelled like home. You remembered the dozens of shops that peppered your home town, each identical, as their franchise had changed the way the drink was sold across the country. This place wasn't the first to try and recapture that success, and it probably wouldn't be the last.

Mostly you remembered the shop where you'd first met Greg. You felt a pang of guilt about this morning, but furiously shook it off. That was *his* fault, and you were determined to have a good day despite it. You focused on other memories, recalling your first interview at the company Congo would later absorb, casually held in a shop just like this. You remembered that time at UnderGround where you'd meet Juan, and the two of you had gone back to his hotel room to screw like rabbits before a System concert.

You froze, recalling that dream from the night before. It *was* a dream, obviously, you had no doubts there. You'd never met a 'Juan' at any coffee shop, and hadn't ever seen System play live. It was a *nice* dream, certainly, in a way you'd never tell anyone about. It had been a weird dream too. You closed your eyes, trying to dredge up any other details about it.

"Hey, miss? Can I help you?" Said a voice.

You were standing in the middle of the coffee shop with your eyes closed, like an idiot. "Oh, sorry about that!" You replied, flustered, "I'll have a sugar-free mocha, no whip. Actually, sure, keep the whip." You'd exercised, right?

The barista had vibrant blue hair, and her name tag read 'Carol.' She nodded, "Size? We've got 'A little bit,' 'Just barely,' and 'Super.'"

She recognized your look as you tried to decipher the logic, and then continued, "...the sizes make more sense with the shop's name. It's kinda dumb."

It clicked, and it *was* dumb. You handed over your card as you deadpanned back, "I think I'll get 'Super' toasted, thanks. Some marketing guy approved that?"

"Across 6 branches, if you believe it. This is our first week, and I don't think I'm ever going to get used to it. Great shirt by the way." She swiped your card on a tablet, then flipped it around for your signature.

You checked the box for "Toasted rewards," plugged in your email, and signed, then took your drink outside to enjoy in the park.

The place might have horrible marketing sense, but their coffee was actually damn good. You sipped your drink, enjoying the flavors, and the warmth of the morning sun on your back, and closed your eyes. It felt fantastic, warming your shoulders and neck, and the cool wind kissed the sweat from your run, sending goosebumps up your arms.

Tomorrow you'd interview for your first job since Congo. You'd made a friend, maybe two, and explored a new coffee shop. For now though, you just wanted to kill time until Greg apologized. You looked around at the shops and passersby, considering how you wanted to spend your day.