This is what happened: Stories 2 at 02:37

All from today, by the way. None of these have any point.

At Cafe Strada in the morning: I got my drink (a large mocha) from the barista on the right, and walked it over, with the smoothness only a marching band nerd has, to the counter with the lids. I grabbed a larger one and tried to put it on. As I pushed on one side, the other disengaged - ah, it's gonna be one of those cup/lid combinations that wouldn't succumb without a struggle, or would feign synergy until a most opportune moment of my unawareness and disengage as I tip it deeply for a long sip, and ruin everything.

I held two points of it down with my middle finger and thumb at the 3 o'clock and 6 o'clock position, and then subdued the 12 and 9 o'clock with my other hand. It fit securely and I even lifted it by the lid to make sure it was on properly. Then I noticed the little arrow on the opposite side of the drink-opening that said, "align with cup seam." It was already perfectly aligned. I did it without even knowing.


I walked down Bancroft, both hands around my coffee to warm my fingers since it was still chilly. I noted briefly to myself how busy, yet silent the edge of campus was on a school day - everyone was just going somewhere, to class or lab or research, not walking to a club or event with friends. After I passed the RSF and the sidewalk crowd thinned out, I noticed another set of footsteps echoing mine, and the distinct muttering that accompanied it.

The muttering was distinct and irregular, and I wanted so badly to give him the benefit of the doubt and chalk it up to a cell phone conversation, but I could hear every word and they didn't form coherent sentences. Instead they were conversationally spaced phrases, full of that charming ebonic inflection and catchwords ("brother"), and I consciously decided not to put in my earphones and instead listen to him. After living in San Francisco for three years now, I've accepted that I have phases of tolerance for the homeless and hippies and black people - sometimes their words and rants, while probably life-enriching with their prospective, simply wear me down, like the black man who sat across from me on the bus last week and just ranted about Asians for the ten blocks he rode the bus, while I pretended to listen to music on my earphones that weren't plugged into anything. So I listened to this man behind me for a few minutes, just analyzing and absorbing his unique inflections and deep voice until he overtook me at an intersection (I observed the stoplight, he thought it was invisible).

Between my midterm and lesson I went to Blue Bottle for some caffeine, in celebration of finishing and in necessity for my lesson. The only person was a man with a carriage, so I only waited a few seconds before making eye contact with one of the baristas, whose face I knew but name I didn't. "What can I get for you?"
 "Can I get a latte, please?" I raised my voice, just in case, so I wouldn't have to repeat myself.
 "Sure... do you want a free cappuccino instead?" Was this a trick question? I've never been offered anything free at Blue Bottle before. Maybe someone had ordered it and hadn't come to claim it for half an hour, I thought.
"Um, sure." I walked forward, but he had made no further indication of permission. He wasn't smiling like usual. I felt awkward and a little guilty of receiving something for free. "Um... did someone just not claim it, or something?"
"No, I just made an extra one." He stated. He looked angry - at himself? Or disappointed? I sorted out the ninety cents I got in change from Cafe Strada in the morning and put it in the tip jar. It mollified at least a little of my uneasiness at taking something for nothing.
"Alright, thanks a lot, then. Have a good day." I walked quickly away, and ran across the street to catch the light.


Maybe once or twice a week when I get to my doorstep, I spot some suspicious dark spot on the floor and have to assess what it is before setting foot near it. Usually it's just a stain (and the same stain, at that), but with my fear of spiders I always have to visually check before stepping foot near it. Today when I got home there was another dark spot. This spot had a tail. This spot was mouse-shaped. It was a little mouse and it wasn't moving.

This was so extraordinary that I just stepped carefully around it, took off my shoes, opened my door and went in. I was carrying my briefcase, my backpack, a sweater and jacket that I had taken off since it was much warmer by the afternoon. I was mentally exhausted and went through the ritual of putting everything away (on my bed), hanging up my keys and washing my hands. I went back out, put on my shoes and stomped the floor near the mouse to see if it would scamper away. I thought I saw it fidget at one point, but I was pretty sure it was dead.

I didn't want to touch it with any part of my shoe. I went back inside and looked for a small box, but only had a particularly rigid Berkeley Bowl bag to put it into. I remembered the broom the house had in the garage closet, and also found a dustpan so I wouldn't need my Berkeley bowl bag. I mechanically swept it onto the dustpan, except I kind of just rolled it over onto its back, where I could see its little paws and mouth and chest heaving as only a little mouse could. On its back it moved weakly to try to flip back over onto its stomach. It wasn't in mouse heaven but it was on its way.

It's so cute, I thought briefly. Then I opened the garbage can and dumped it in.