Early mornings in Manhattan made the mission easy; easier when it was Sunday, easy when everyone else walked about in their church clothes, the well-respected ‘Sunday best’ of America. For Nassim it was a day of doing the good work, rolling out of bed at six and lazily sliding into jeans and layers of shirts to fight the biting cold. She had a ritual, on Sundays, to take a portion of her tips and blow it all on coffee, going around with a little cardboard tray and distributing dark roast to the home- less and impoverished. She might not be able to give them homes, but she could do comfort, she could take the embrace of thanks that came from many of them and in return give warmth. Everyone deserved coffee to wake up on, and the city was so full of cheap little cafés that she could give away about twenty cups before she had to rush off to church, herself.
Sundays more than any other she felt less like Nassim, and more like the Woman who Watches, felt that spirit welling up in her and it made the world so bright, the breaking of sunlight over the skyline, the beating back of the shadows. It made it easy to walk, easy to breathe, easy to smile and easy to love. Her eyes are peeled for cardboard signs, peeled for the steam of warm air hitting cold, clothes that need the laundromat, eyes full of humility. She finds the next one, finds herself intrigued by the question.
If the secret to happiness was written here, would you read it?
But the sign is the secret to happiness, because to give is to love is to find joy, and Nassim has one last cup of coffee in her tray. She watches before she crosses the road to him, eyes careful on the tray, don’t drop, don’t spill, don’t lose it to the concrete. “Good morning,” she’s saying by way of intro- duction, a hand already dislodging the cup to offer it to him. “Would you like a coffee? It’s nice and hot, just from the shop a couple blocks down.”
And his smile widens. The warmth of the girl's heart can be felt from his spot and he places the cardboard sign next to his feet, hands resuming their stance in front of him -- waiting. When she offers him the coffee, he nods, the smile fades but it remains in his eyes. Humility, among other things. His right hand reaches out, takes the cup, and relishes in the warmth. When he speaks, it is with a voice softer than silk, a voice that holds all the world's worries and joys within each word.
"Thank you, Miss. You're very kind."
The cup is touched to his lips, but his eyes never leave the young lady for a second. As he swallows the coffee -- he grimaces, but it's brief, fleeting, and the smile is brought to his lips again. He breaks the gaze from her to look towards the sky, then down to the horizon, and back to her once again. A sharp intake of breath, of the morning air, crisp, chill, breezy.
"It is yet another beautiful day on this earth. I find the mornings are the best time of day -- you can see people's smiles, however fleeting, as they head toward their daily duties." his hands encompass the cup of coffee in its whole, letting the warmth run all throughout his body. "You're up early." not a question, a statement. safe, worry-free. Kind.
