Each morning, Stan walked a mile through his neighborhood with a full cup of coffee, always in the same plain mug. It was that horrible instant stuff, brown nuggets dissolved in hot water. He held it with his right hand, forearm parallel to the sidewalk, mug directly in front of his chest. Rain or shine. Winter or summer. The same route. He never sipped, just help it there, never spilling. Then, at his mailbox, he’d down it in one big swig.
“Why?” a neighbor once asked.
“No matter what happens the rest of the day,” Stan replied, “it’s an improvement.”