The Morning Curtain

 

The tenth snooze is my cue. 

Not to wake—just to begin.

 

The curtain rises. 

I step into the light, still half-dreaming, still heavy. 

But the role demands presence.

 

I am a barista. 

I make great coffee. 

But my hidden talent is acting.

 

I smile like I mean it. 

I laugh like I slept well. 

I serve with warmth I don’t always feel.

 

I am a method actor. 

I channel the boy I used to be— the one who smiled without effort, who didn’t know the weight of mornings. 

I win Oscars daily. 

No one sees the rehearsals. 

No one hears the backstage sighs.

 

To my audience, I’m the happiest barista they’ve ever known. 

Eight hours of performance, until I return to the wings.

 

Back home, the curtain falls. 

The mask softens. 

The espresso machine sleeps. 

And I am just me again.

Another successful show.