Routines and Mediums

“You’ve changed,” he whispers as he slides the coffee cup across the worn cedar counter. I haven’t been feeling all that much the past few days, up until this very moment. You’ve changed. I lift my eyes to meet his grey irises. The same eyes that I’ve met every morning for the past 367 days. Routine. I part my lips (saying nothing), cradle the hot cup in my cracking hands, and sit at one of the many bar stools. The same chipped stool, every day, for the past 367 days. The barista with the grey eyes was just making a silly assumption; I haven’t changed, not one bit. I try a sip of coffee. Searing. I almost spit. Have I changed? I’m no longer happy (at least not as happy as I was 367 days ago), yet I’m not sad. Fluctuating. But my routine hasn’t changed, therefore neither have I. I take another stab at the coffee. Hot. I can deal with hot. Am I just dealing with my life? I was rambunctious 367 days ago, yet now I’m just dealing. Coping. Another sip. The joe is lukewarm. I am lukewarm, nothing but a constant medium. I suppose I have changed. I slowly stand, dispose of my cup, and walk out the scratched glass door of the coffee house for the 366th time. Routine.