Just the Right Amount of Cream

By Rachel Turney

There is a Dunkin’ by my friend Patryk’s house. It’s between the train stop and his place. When I
visit I roll my wheeled luggage through the snow and ice, over the mounds of salt to the door of
the Dunkin. I call my order from there because I don’t want to leave my luggage outside
unattended and I know they will be upset if I get brine all over their black rugs. One large coffee
with cream. They never ask how much cream, but it’s always the right amount. They bring it out
from behind the counter. Once every few months we practice this same exchange.
Patryk helps me lift my bag up the stairs and I sit with my coffee on the couch, collecting white
cat hair on my yoga pants, which I wear for travel not for yoga. He asks me if I want a cocktail.
It’s ten in the morning. I motion to my coffee. He removes the lid and adds a healthy pour of
Green Chartreuse. Each time he acts like this is a novel approach to coffee, but he made me
this just three months ago. The Chartreuse mixes with the too hot coffee and the cream. I hold
my paper cup with two hands and breath in the aroma of love, winter, this visit, and the promise
of the day to come.