Human Writes: Barista’s Choice

This piece is about writing. I know it doesn’t seem that way, but trust me, it really is. | Non-Fiction | Fresh Soup

The street I live on is short and narrow. When I walk out of the old apartment building where I’ve lived for the past thirty-three years, I can go either north or south. On such a tiny street, this is a pretty inconsequential choice—thirty yards this way or the other. Still, the logical thing would be for my destination to dictate which way to turn: if the destination is north of my apartment, I should turn left; if it’s to the south, then right. But somehow, when I’m alone, that’s not the way my brain works. I walk from the building to the sidewalk, look to the right, look to the left, and then, based on what I see, I decide which way to go. One morning I might choose to walk north because I’m curious to see how the construction project on the corner of the block is coming along or avoid that annoying neighbor who’s walking toward me from the other direction, and the next morning I might stroll south simply because that’s where I spot a cat with high cheek bones who I’ve never seen around the neighborhood before.