I refuse to be invisible.

During the last long months, time has simply slipped away. I can feel the tide pulling me with it. Way out to sea, forgotten and lost forever. Like an ancient message in a bottle. Never opened, never read.

So I wake up every morning and brave the two blocks that separates me from the local coffee shop. My face may be unseen, but at least I am not. As I arrive at the shop, I’m greeted not by the barista, but by a fleet of online orders, waiting for their owners. I wait outside for my order to be taken, since I’m not allowed in. Finally after what feels like eons, I order a “large iced americano, with a little cream”. I rush to blurt it all out, because my guilt is now overflowing. Each second I occupy this spot, I force others to remain distant from their precious coffees. I pay $4, rarely tip, and scuffle off to the bench, where I sit alone, waiting for my own.

It’s during these next moments I feel my trip outside was worth it. I’m off to the side, wading peacefully in place. I clean my glasses and adjust my mask. I see the others and they see me … sitting here … on my bench. I watch the people coming to pick up their coffees. I watch them scan the landscape of drinks for the ones made just for them. Uniquely labeled “Dave” and “Sarah”, always managing to be the last vessel they check. They can feel the presence of my gaze as they exclaim with a slight gasp and grab their cup. I wonder to myself if the coffees get sad waiting to be claimed. Mine doesn’t get the chance. They call my name and I’m up and gone. I’ve accomplished my goal; coffee acquired. I retreat to my apartment, still waiting to imbibe my beverage.

   

As long as each day passes and each coffee is drunk, I feel seen.

I spell the words of my story on each cup, and then flush it all down.

This ritual is my anchor, as dumb as it may seem.

Better to be seen, then cast off to sea.