There’s the woman who orders decaf but still asks for extra shots — the theological version of wanting the ritual, not the repercussions. And the man who insists his cappuccino be “authentic Italian.” I use the same beans as everyone else, but I give him extra foam and a flourish on top. Religion, I’ve learned, is mostly presentation.
Every week begins with silence — the steady kind, the kind that hangs in the air like a held breath. The Harmonic Library calls it reset calibration. I think of it as washing the ears clean.
I was halfway through reheating yesterday’s chowder when the first buoy pinged. It wasn’t unusual — equipment hiccups, rogue currents, barnacle interference. What caught my attention was the rhythm: dot-dot-dot, dash-dash-dash, dot-dash-dot….
