A cup is in my hand.

Scent of steaming chocolate rises.

Where am I?

An empty patio, book in lap.
A cabin in Oregon, another book, same lap. Cup of hot cocoa next to me.
Morning time, cars driving by, I watch, drink, and read.
On a bench in Yosemite, carefully sipping, watching sausages fry and neighbors begin to rise out of their tents, zippers rending the morning air.
Childhood Christmas, blanket wrapped around me, presents at my feet, cats delicately stepping through the bright boxes, ducking under low-hanging ornaments.
At my desk, characters flashing at me. Keelung, Shanghai, Yantian. Go.
In a corner of a bookstore, legs leisurely tossed over the arm of a chair, boots dangling, cup precariously balanced on the juncture of my hip and stomach.

Cup is at my left, steam still curling upwards.

My lips touch the edge and, for just a second, I am here.