I once told … told Allister I think … that I imagined a bleak future for myself.
“I see myself sitting at a bar, staring into my drink.”
He stares at me and laughs. Allister knows that I rarely – if ever – drink. It’s infectious and I join in. Brief moment of hilarity over, topic ends, back to work. In those days all we could see were the projects, professors and coop ahead of us. When you’re facing two years of Waterloo the only way to keep from going fucking insane is by taking it a day at a time.
But I’ve never shaken that feeling. Always recognized the basic truth in my comment.
If you stare at a cup of Peet’s coffee long enough you can see a film of oil coiling, swirling, forming intricate patterns under the overhead bulbs. Slide the paper jacket off and feel your fingertips tense as the heat seeps through the cup.
The other patrons will only notice my leg twitch slightly. In my mind I’ve thrown the coffee cup and attacked the window, punching it until blood streams from my knuckles. If I had my laptop I would have thrown it through the glass. At times like these I avoid movement. Exhaustion aside, I have an irrational yet undeniable fear that I will take three steps, fall to my knees and dry heave in the middle of the room.