“Hot Grande Soy Caramel Latte.” It rolls off my tongue with practiced precision. I glance at my watch, it’s a quarter past 8 o’clock. Should I call a cab or just take the train back to my apartment? I’ve been weighing these small decisions all day, as if any of them would lead to something more significant.
“Coffee for Nofap,” the barista shouts, mispronouncing my name so horrifically that it startles me out of my thoughts.
What the hell did she just call me? Nofap? I laugh at the absurdity of it. How do you even mistake Nodap for Nofap? A fleeting thought of telling her my real name crosses my mind, but I let it go.
It’s just coffee, right?
The taste of the latte is decent, but there’s something in the bitterness that mirrors my mood. I push through the exit door and immediately feel the chill of winter nipping at my fingers. That’s when I see it—a small fire smoldering in a trash bin on the corner. And here I thought my day couldn’t get any weirder.
For a second, I stand there, completely still, letting the image sink in. Should I really waste a $7 latte on this? It’s not my problem. But the flames are growing, licking the edges of the bin like they’re tasting freedom. I run through my reasoning:
- I really want to drink my coffee.
- I just paid $7.
- I really, really want to drink my coffee.
But in the end, my conscience wins out over my caffeine craving. I take one last gulp, mutter a resigned “Well, shit,” and dump what’s left of my overpriced drink on the fire. A hiss and plume of steam mark the end of the blaze, but the faint smell of burnt plastic still lingers in the air.
As I stand there, wondering if I just saved the city from certain disaster or simply ruined a perfectly good latte, I hear sirens approaching. They grow louder, and soon, a cop car pulls up beside me. The officer steps out, and his eyes scan me up and down like he’s sizing up a suspect.
Before he can reach for his handcuffs, I raise my hands and say, “Don’t worry, officer. I didn’t start the fire, I just put it out.”
He doesn’t respond at first. He’s got that look cops give you when they’re not sure if you’re messing with them or just stupid. “Nodap Tsew,” he reads off the coffee cup. “There’s a warrant out for your arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you…”
The Police Station
The station is like every other one I’ve been to. Overhead lights too bright, walls a shade of beige designed to make you feel nothing, and the faint hum of an ancient AC system working way too hard. The officer leads me to a room that feels more like a waiting area for trouble.
“It says here that you have a warrant out for your arrest because you failed to appear in court,” he says, monotone, like he’s done this a hundred times today.
“Y’know,” I reply, “that really doesn’t sound like me.”
He sighs, not even looking up from his clipboard. “Nodap, you’ve got a clean record. We don’t want to book you, okay? You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. All we need is your cooperation.”
“Cooperation” they say, after kidnapping me, lecturing me, and submitting me to his cheap cologne. Cooperation, It implies trust, but there’s none here. Not really. Against my better judgment, I feel the urge to say something absurd, so I do.
“On the night of October 12, I went to my favorite Chinese takeout, China Star on 15th and Central. As I walked out, I saw a guy tagging a wall with ‘ACAB’ and decided to join in. We ended up painting murals about defunding the military and advocating for queer liberation. I even wrote a manifesto on the sidewalk.”
The officer doesn’t bat an eye. He just keeps scribbling in his notebook like he’s humoring me. I know he doesn’t care. The game is rigged, and we’re both playing our parts.
Phone Rings
I raise a hand. “I have to take this call, officer. Hope you don’t mind.”
The Train Ride Home
Walking out of the police station feels surreal. It’s like escaping a bad dream, one where you’re running but never getting anywhere. The station doors close behind me, and I make my way to the metro. As the train pulls away, I breathe in the air, an awful mix of BO, old coffee, and dirt but it’s familiar, almost grounding. I feel… free, in a weird, ironic way.
When I get home, the silence feels heavier than usual. I hang up my coat and scarf, wondering why I even bother having a closet when most of my life seems to fit in a suitcase. The shower is my only solace, steam swirling around me like a temporary escape.
As I step out of the shower, steam wrapping around me like a fleeting sense of comfort, a thought hits me: the craving for the latte I sacrificed earlier. The bitter taste lingers in my mind, reminding me of the choices that mark my day. I stare at the phone on the counter, silent and still. I almost wish it would ring, to interrupt this moment, to justify the sacrifice. But it doesn’t.
To PJW, thank you for being my friend, for this and so much more. With love, always.
Sad Writer Digest 