Coffee

I am reading Natalie Goldberg's Old Friend From Far Away. I've decided to write every day for ten minutes. She provides the prompts. I just have to take them. If I'm ever going to figure out anything, I've decided that this is the process in which to do it.

Here's my response to the prompt "Coffee."

I used to like it black. Those years on the boat with no fridge, powdered milk would just clump blandly when mixed with it in the steel mug. So I took it thick and dark and aromatic, hitting my bloodstream the same as a shot of single-malt. Toe-tingling. Had to smack me upside the head like an angry momma shouting Wake up!

I wish I could tell you I drank it slowly, like a meditation; that I really savored and spent a moment with each sip, but I never have. I gulp it down like a marathoner at the water station of Mile 23. Like I might never get another drink as long as I live.

Now I seem to want luxury, so I pour a little of the organic, full fat half-and-half into the cup first, just covering the bottom. This precludes the need to dirty a spoon (another habit I picked up aboard Tranquilo). I want it the color of my ex-husband's skin in late August after a summer of afternoon surf sessions. It's still bitter, and a little dark. It hurts on the way down, but that's just the way I like it.

Sometimes I think I started adding cream again just to get the color like that.