There was this one morning last fall during video production class at U-Manchester where we broke for coffee. I walked nextdoor to the museum cafe, which had the best dark coffee in the city. They had a £2 special every morning, where you could get a tiny coffee and tiny chocolate croissant for a mere $4 USD before 11a. Phil, my moody 30-year-old professor, sat outside smoking and asked where I got my coffee. “In there,” I told him, pointing. “It’s only a pound.”
It had been raining earlier, I think. But the sun had just come out and my rain jacket was no longer necessary.
I have these sporadic photographic memories of living in England. They come and go. It’s always the little moments, too — the double-decker bus rides from Chorlton, the way the hallways smelled on the 5th floor of the Granada Centre, the pink of the bathroom stall doors, the loud bloop sound of P.’s mobile behind my wall when he got texts from his girlfriend in Peru. The blooping sound would continue throughout the night sometimes when P. fell asleep, beeping in increments of five minutes while I tossed and turned. His girlfriend must really miss him, I thought. Separation is tough.
Listened to some soul & hip hop last night. Good people, cool decor, tart cranberry juice. I’d like to play scrabble with E. again, but he’s gone for a bit. In fact, I’d like to play scrabble right now.
Ry is sleeping. I can only hear the birds, and the sound made from punching in the pop-up holes on the top of my iced coffee lid like I did to my mother’s diet cokes in the 80s. Poomph! It sounds like that.