52/90, our endless numbered days

Title taken from Iron & Wine

I never underestimate the power of Early to Bed, Early to Rise. I set my alarm for 6:05 a.m. and do not allow myself to snooze. My feet slide off of my bed and into my slippers. I drink red tea at my desk while I read the newspaper.

I drink a glass of wine and become drowsy, curling against my fiancé’s chest as he watches late-night television. He wakes me when it is time to brush our teeth and put in my retainer. I twirl my hair back into a bun and moisturize my face. I pull my quilt up to my chin.

This routine brings great comfort to me, as it only occurs one weekend a month. Our long-distance relationship has me eager to be older—old. Not tea-cozy-and-blue-rinse old. Comfortable old. Joe will have a permanent indent on his left pectoral, from my head resting there. We will no longer have a twin mattress. The full mattress will be carved into our S-shape, a soothing worry stone.

On four years, I was a barista on weekends. Those mornings are filled with family tradition. At 7:30, I dip toasted wheat bread with butter into cinnamon-sugar. Two pieces are too much for the retired couple, and they share. I imagine myself taking the two small triangles when Joe is not looking. I would scrape much of the sugar off onto his slice and dip the corners into coffee. At 10:00, two children and their parents come in. The parents slip arms around each other and ask us to warm their muffins. The mother cups her son’s face in her hands. He is not embarrassed; he uses it as an opportunity to ask for a mocha. She whispers to me that it needs to be decaf.

I imagine spending Sundays after mass with a dog attached to the fence outside and a boy with a one-syllable nickname and glasses bouncing between the dog and his coloring book and the book we are reading to him—Hans Brinker or How to Eat Fried Worms. We would look back at the pictures and say that we tired of reading that same book; we would call his glasses “spectacles.”

We haven’t discussed all of these things yet—which books will be gender-neutral enough or promote certain roles, how to answer when he asks why Dad doesn’t go to mass. We have discussed names, giving the countdown of days between visits a purpose.

I would find myself drifting into these fantasies instead of buttering the toast. The families ask if they can pay or have a seat. I apologize and hand them the toast, which slips to the left and to the right on the saucer. There eyes widen as they watch, then they glance at me with a worried expression. I imagine my expression to be sparkly and happy and day-dreamy. In reality, it must seem like the apathy that they say permeates our generation.      

I smile at whatever they think, knowing that when I am that age, I will recognize this look on a young girl’s face. I will squeeze Joe’s hand and move his arm around my waist.