She sat next to the window with her small caramel lattè and opened her novel to part three of ‘Anna Karenina’. To many, the act of being able to relax in a coffee house was nothing to relish. But to her, small things like this meant everything.
Four years ago she would have walked past the warmth of a coffee house with red rings around her eyes, too spaced-out and broke to even think of entering. And besides, what was coffee in comparison to cocaine? Nothing.
But four years on, she was clean, had been for ages, and the small coffee in front of her was just enough, tasted better and didn’t leave her wanting to die from the comedown every morning. Coffee didn’t make her stay up late, force her eyes into sunken hollows, and prevent her from enjoying the smaller things in life; things that others often take for granted.
No, this was the life she had craved for so long. She breathed in roasted coffee beans and fresh, clean air, and smiled.
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