Friday, September 26, 2014

The Coffee Mug

The other day, it was freezing in the office. It is, in fact, always freezing in the office. On the bright side, our office has an automatic French press, and I’d had the presence of mind to bring in a real, ceramic coffee mug.

On this particularly chilly day, on the advice of my VP, I filled the mug with freshly brewed and very hot coffee. The smell of a fresh brew is almost like chocolate, and I always marvel how far the smell of coffee is from its actual, to me not at all pleasant taste. A cup of coffee is really just something to be gotten through, and there’s really only ever been a few cups worth remembering -but perhaps the delight, in the same way that drug users are always chasing that first high, is always chasing that one remembered taste you simply cannot forget.

Something about it reeks of romance, and maybe the bitter taste in the mouth is the reality of what relationships really are -hope dashed against the grinds, wet and earthy, and as close to death as we will get until the day we die.

As I slowly drink this hot cup of coffee, I wrap my chilled hands around the warm porcelain, almost too hot to touch, but a welcome contrast to the frost hanging in the air of the conference room. The warmth in the cup, the kindness of the suggestion from the VP, the bitter taste of the coffee combined with its intoxicating aroma -it’s all a bit too much.

Every moment should be like this, and not laced over with milk and sugar. For some reason, though the weight would be the same, the black coffee I now drink seems lighter in the hands than the mocha I used to always drink instead. I worry what the black liquid is doing to my teeth, my stomach, and my general overall well-being, and try to limit myself to two cups a day.

I used to be wildly addicted to this stuff, needing it in a way that other people need drugs and sugar.

No comments:

Post a Comment