There is a piece of cellophane on the floor. There is a half eaten bran muffin still folded up in the filmy outer paper on the counter next to me. A drop of cream that fell from the cold, silver canister when I filled it. A coffee bean. A paper clip. A few grains of chai powder. This is my morning job. Two refrigerators hum beside me. A shiny register. A yellow cylinder of whip cream. Vanilla and cinnamon and hazelnut syrups. A cup of blueberry tea between my knees, a steady stream of steam slowly rising from the pill shaped opening. A darling man downstairs, making our lunch. It feels much earlier than it is, and I miss sleeping in.