A few hours later the mythic feeling of the morning had been smothered by awaking to my habitual bondage to bourgeois drudgery. I threw on my dark blue blouse and black jeans, dabbed on the bare minimum makeup and drove to work.

I drove around the same route through the woods that I had fled earlier on in the morning and parked outside the little cafe by the railroad tracks at the end of the road into town.

I walked in, past the row of untouched elderwood saplings that lined the parking lot, and offered my customary morning wave to Kurt from the kitchen window, who nodded as he flipped a omelet back into the sizzling skillet he tended. I couldn't tell if he had even noticed me or was head-banging to the black metal piping in through his earbuds.

I rounded the corner of the cashier's counter to see Rene fishing a carton of almond milk out of the refrigerator under the table.

"Hey" she greeted me smiling, "How's the art project going, Silvana?"

"Eh, it's not all bad." I conceded with a smirk. "Finished another big piece this morning."

"Oh Silvana" she cooed with her hand over your heart "To think- here you were slinging the fair trade sludge, and next thing you know you'll be filming yourself sleeping for five hours and snorting mountains of cocaine with Lou Reed at Studio 54"

"Not if I'm shot by a struggling feminist playwright first!" I said.

"and then we'll bury you with a little bottle of your favorite perfume." she added.

"How chic!"

Rene burst out laughing, snorting loudly.

"I've got to get you to the fire! Everybody would love you there, you've got to come one of these weekends!"

"What? So I can risk third-degree burns and shake some maracas around to get fucked by some guy named like, I don't know, Kyle, because he knows guitar."

"pffft!" She scoffed. "but really, why don't you come out there? You'd have fun!"

"I just feel like it's not my scene. I guess I really should. This week it would just interfere with the project I have going on though." I said.

"Oh come on, we could absolutely use a real witch at our black sabbath!"

I rolled my eyes.

"Hey though, How'd it go with your mom the other night?" Rene prodded.

I sighed. "Same as usual. We still haven't heard back."

"Ah." she said, putting her hand on my shoulder. "Try not to let it get to you. Worst case scenario you can always come live with me and Kurt."

"Thanks." I said as she shuffled past the counter towards the stockroom.

Little by little, like the slow drip of seeped java, customers began to trickle in through the late morning. There were the contractors who came each morning for egg sandwiches and black coffee. There was the mom who came chasing a latte for herself and cookies for her three kids. Finally in the corner sat the slovenly graduate student who usually forgot to shower, wore days old clothes, and pored over his physics books each morning with chai tea and a brownie.

I didn't hate my barista job in the abstract. Coffee-bitch was a noble and respected calling in a town that festered with insufferably smug and overeducated yuppies. I was thankful that my work allowed me to present as I was and to stave off the student loan repayments, but there was still something about it that felt uncomfortably performative and subservient. Sometimes something about it nagged at my failure to flee this wretched town I have always wanted to leave and just made me feel like I was existentially being skinned alive every day.