Strawberry Milk by LaChelle (Sage) Schilling Why did I slip day-old yellow stockings over olive knit tights, slap on a matted beanie to walk to the market in daylight? Some people don’t think you should browse when you already have bags of coffee half-used on the top of a microwave that needs dusting. I’m simply considering coming out as a tea drinker, yet I also turn into the coffee aisle just to see the options. I actually like the coffee I have: it’s comfortable and I’m productive with it, makes me a better person. We’ve been off-and-on for 6 years. Maybe I shouldn’t even be consuming beverages until I get my shit together. I cup a caramel chai tea tin, thumb its cold foil of cheap around the circumference, blink at a bag of Columbian cinnamon dark roast, its blurred cursive motto reminding me of Christmas 1996; then, ashamed and tired, I cross to the next lane, toss strawberry milk into my cart to devour on the way home, something quick that no one will guess.