My toe is tapping on the bus. It’s still dark, but with the help of Otis Redding I’m wearing a half-grin. It is six in the morning. My body hurts. My hair is disheveled. I’m wearing a Seahawks hooded sweatshirt, a size too large and Simpson’s pajama pants. I should not be awake. I should be asleep, under a flannel comforter. A big blue blanket. But the alarm clock wouldn’t quit, and the homework was not about to be ignored.
With my headphones on, I put these thoughts aside, and I remember that there will be an end to the day. After the coffee does its job, and I’ve sat through 5 hours of lectures, read 55 pages of Calvin’s Institutes and parsed a hell-of-a-lot of Greek; there is a table waiting for me in the corner of the pub. And there is a pitcher of beer that will never get warm. And the girls will be all smiles. And the friends will all have stories. And there will be dancing. Lots of dancing. And there in that pub my glass will never be empty and the juke-box will never play Journey (insert whatever band you hate).
So as I hide deep in my hoody, I smile. Just a little bit. Because I know that while the coffee may last for the morning, the beer. . . the beer comes in the evening.