Gas Station Coffee

Passing through my hometown during a 6-hour drive. My music is loud but I’m tired. I pull into the local gas station for a gas station coffee, sometimes the best kind. The one time I wanted to treat myself to something sweet the vanilla cappuccino machine was broke, it’s okay, I’ll just go for my usual. One cream and two splindas. The coffee machine was low but I was desperate. I stood there as it slowly started to pour into my styrofoam cup. “Great”, I think. Another cup that will end up floating in our ocean.

I watch the coffee take its time dripping. And my mind starts to wonder. This used to be home. This town, these people, this gas station. And I think of how much has changed in the four years I’ve moved. It’s strange to make a new place feel like home. I wonder what my old friends are up to and how my life would be different if I never moved. I wonder who I would have met if I went to a different college. Studied a different major. Said yes to that party I bailed on. I think about how we all have different lives and connect with different people. And how nothing is a coincidence. Moving to a new city. Going to the college I chose. Studying the major in which I received my diploma. Saying no to that party. All of those happened for a reason. I start to think how I’ve grown from the past four years.

But my coffee is ready. And I add my two splindas and cream. I pay for my .99 cent coffee and hit the road, onto my next thought.

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