A Coffee Mug

The smell roused her before the whirring sound of her coffee maker grinding to life, pulling her from a dream.

Greta slid out of bed with a smile, stretching her arms overhead and sweeping them down to her toes. 

Sunlight streamed through a rather small window in her room; she pulled the curtains open before going to bed each night, loving the way the natural light coaxed her into alertness as fresh coffee beckoned her to the kitchen.

Especially on Saturdays.  On Saturdays she did her long runs.

Running soothed her. 

The routine way her legs carried her slowly on the short route to the storefront, the few blocks a perfect warm-up for the run, the solitary time allowing her time with her thoughts before running alongside other members of the group. 

The way the same path through the neighborhood could be different each time, weather, her mood, background music all changing and adding a new dimension to the familiar buildings and cracks in the sidewalk. 

The way she could ease in and out of her own thoughts, her music low in her ears so she could carry on breathless conversations with her running partners.

They had been strangers before she had laced up her brand new shoes to tentatively run with them.  Quickly, they became friendly  acquaintances.  Some slid effortlessly into the friend category, friendships formed in the easy silence of their runs and the chatty confidences shared over sweaty cups of coffee or walks home.

Padding into the kitchen, she poured the small, single cup of coffee she had before her morning runs, adding a dash of flavored creamer and artificial sweetener, vowing yet again to give up the little rectangle of chemical sweetness. Tomorrow.

Greta leaned slightly into the steam coming from her mug, curling her hands around the ceramic warmth.  Her ears acknowledged a sudden silence. 

The steady stream of the shower fit so seamlessly into her consciousness that she had barely noticed it until it stopped.

Deliberately, she pulled another mug out of the cupboard, eyes happily resting on the worn pair of running shoes near the front door, dwarfing hers in size but mixed together comfortably with the other shoes lingering on the tiled entry.

Today she wouldn’t be running her warm-up alone.

If you haven't met Greta yet and would like to know more about her, you can read more at Greta's Story. 

the prompt:

This week, with Labor Day and the end of summer rapidly approaching, we asked you to write about a season of change for your character or you. It can be literal or metaphorical.