I work at a coffee shop. Coffee shop is a stretch. It’s more like a chaotic upscale farmers market/grocery store that has been co-opted by students who use it as a place to sip $5 matcha lattés in a down-to-earth environment. Look, there’s a real life farmer, I’m not the problem, I’m humble. But it’s true, I spin a mad bean. 

 

Recently I’ve been teasing my bizarre, annoying, yet slightly amusing co-worker, Felix, about how much I love my coffee lukewarm. I’ve been bringing in my own thermos to work these days as a little act of resistance against the mandatory to-go-cup-only policy that we’ve instituted as COVID-19—corona virus, I never know which one to use—has shuttered society. The thermos is yellow and made out of plastic and rubber and has a great handle and a screw-on black lid that doesn’t seal the coffee inside but rather heards it to one drinking hole. It’s the cup that dad’s would drink out of when doing errands. As long as I have my bean, I can pick up fucking Kevin from soccer practice. Sip. Place cup back in cupholder. Fits perfectly. This cup is one of three things that say MICHIGAN on them. Another is a sweatshirt I painted with house paint and had to cut the resulting turtle shell out of it so now has a huge hole in the back. The final is an old tank top that I bought on Depop. These three things sum me up pretty well.

 

Anyway, it’s true. I love my coffee cold. I love my coffee cold for the same reasons I like when it rains: there are no expectations. Hot coffee is supposed to be good so when I sip it and it still tastes like tar, I get sad. Beautiful days are supposed to be filled with joy so when they’re not optimized—I’m sorry Jenny Odell I’m still learning—I feel like I let myself down. Cold coffee however, is supposed to be discarded. You’re a barista, Felix tells me. Have higher standards. That statement comes as a surprise to me. I’ve never called myself a barista, I’m just someone who works at a coffee shop/farmers market/grocery store that has been co-opted by students who use it as a place to sip $5 matcha lattés in a down-to-earth environment. But that’s beside the point. I do have high standards, but also hate expectations. I’m a barista that enjoys the lack of expectations that accompany cold coffee more than coffee itself. I maintain my dignity. 

 

One more thing to add to my list which contains cold coffee and rain: plain colors. Cold coffee, rain, and color are my remedies. Cold coffee, rain, plain colors. There are no expectations for a cold coffee, for rainy days. There are no expectations for forgotten telephone poles covered with a single color, nor for decrepit sides-of-buildings that no one has bothered to carefully design yet alone look at. 

 

That is where I thrive. 

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