Second Cups
Why the first cup is logistics, and the second is the one in which the afternoon actually begins.
The logistical cup
The first cup is drunk while standing, or while looking for a letter I have already put in a sensible place. It is hot in a way that feels like administration. I do not remember its taste. I remember that it happened, the way I remember locking the door.
I used to be ashamed of this. A proper morning, I thought, was a seated morning. Then I noticed that the work I respect in other people often begins with a cup nobody photographs.
When the second is poured
The second cup I take to the table. The notebook is open and, for a while, blank on purpose. Steam thins. The pencil waits without being a reproach. This is the cup in which a sentence sometimes arrives, and sometimes does not, and the afternoon begins either way.
The second cup is not a reward for the first. It is the moment the day stops being a list.
A small habit
I recommend it without evangelism. Some days there is only the standing cup, and the day goes on being a day. When there is a second, I try not to spend it improving myself. I spend it noticing the light on the saucer, which has never once asked me to be better than I am.
