She looked at her dark mottled reflection in her coffee cup, its murkiness and overwhelming morning scent both delicious and somehow un-welcoming.  Was it perhaps that with mornings came cruel reminders about the nature of her life in its lack of special grandeur?  Or maybe that this cup of coffee was the most significant part of her day, and there was a nagging knowledge in the back of her mind that grated at her every day, that the most significant part of her day wasn’t unique, nor special.  It was coffee, like everyone else’s coffee.

“Please notice me,” she wanted to cry out.  She imagined that small syrup-taste of infamy, crystal-clear and seductive, the knowledge that people all over the world, most who you don’t know at all, love you unconditionally, and would do anything to meet you or even run into you at the bakery, at the bookstore.  Fame.  It was like falling in pure, unadulterated love – you could fall asleep in its arms every night and never realize that there was something better out there that was waiting to pull you from your new-found happiness.

She blew the steam off the top of her cup.  Its richness smelled familiar and its aroma was smooth and full.

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