The ceramic mug (it said "World's Best Dad" but it was just a cheap charity shop pickup) hissed hot steam as the thin, wild-haired man poured boiling water over the instant coffee. The inky black liquid bubbled like swamp tar, belying its taste, also similar to swamp tar. Still, it beat paying ten pounds for a thin latte and having to deal with the currency. Why did he only have Scottish banknotes? He must have taken a trip recently. After all, he was Scottish.
Have you always been? You have been before. But you also haven't.
He waved away the thought and pulled a battered packet of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his long, tattered jacket, lighting one as he used his elbow to open the door. He couldn't remember his first cigarette. He was sure he must have looked very different then. Maybe totally different. Funny thought, that. It felt like something he shouldn't be doing. Like it wasn't...appropriate. He closed the door of the little house he had been granted on campus - it almost made up for his dreadful salary - and beat a quick walk towards the faculty office. Doctor John Smith, professor of Music History at CSM, was late for a lecture. He was always late for lectures, but they were always worth attending. He stood, shifting from foot to foot at the street crossing. The smoke from his cigarette was blowing hard into the face of the person next to him. He was too wrapped up in his own thoughts and the blisteringly awful coffee to notice.