One small cup of Stumptown coffee, poured hot and fresh on the way to the subway, balanced precariously while I purchased a Metrocard because I left my monthly pass in my back pocket of a different pair of jeans.
One piece of shortbread, so rich that it was nearly all butter, eaten while I stared down an MTA notice on the G train platform quizzically and tried to decide if I was waiting for a train that would never come.
The dregs of the coffee I licked off the back of my hand when the cup wasn’t empty and the train, which eventually arrived, lurched unexpectedly.
One very rich soy latte at the coffeeshop, ordered after I set up my laptop, which the barista handed to me with a tulip drawn on top, sipped slowly over two thousand words.
One pint of Left Hand Milk Stout over the last thousand.
The feeling of victory after reading the chapter over and realizing it was done enough for now.
One pint of Sixpoint Sweet Action and a plate of nachos at the Irish place across the street from the coffeeshop.
Pure bliss while listening to Philip Glass’s complete Etudes performed by ten pianists, including Glass, for three hours, and a bottle of water besides.
A bag of microwave popcorn and some local red wine while catching up on episodes curled up next to a warm husband on the couch.
And—thank God—the feeling of suspecting it was a Saturday well spent.