“Rosé all day”, she chimed, right before she walked out of the café;
lipstick stains on her to-go cup and coffee-breath fogging up the morning chill.
I wish I could do this all day.
Swim in the ocean in the pouring rain.
Eat oranges in a field in sunny Paris.
Catch the last flight back home.
Drink another mocha latté.
Anything but spend the next eight hours stuck in a cubicle;
waiting, waiting –
For 5 pm.
For the weekend.
For next year.
For God knows what.