10.30.2002 - 10:40 a.m.

The roommate�s boyfriend makes coffee every morning. Last night, while he was cleaning out the pot, he mentioned that there is always some left over, and that I�d be welcome to drink it if I wanted, if I was a coffee drinker.

�I like the way it smells�� I answered. I do like the smell. And I like the bubbly sound in the background between my first few alarms. But coffee is one of those things in life that illustrate the basic difference between appearance and reality. I will never like coffee.

�I can even make more, if you want,� he adds.

�That�s okay. Maybe I�ll try the leftovers sometime, but you certainly shouldn�t make any more on my account.�

So this morning I was wondering what I would eat for breakfast, as it�s been about a week longer than it should have been between grocery runs. I found a freezerburned bagel behind the ice cream, so that was good, but even after being defrosted and toasted, it was still pretty chewy.

I looked over at the coffee pot. People dip things in coffee, right?

The roommate and her boyfriend had turned it off before leaving, but it was still pretty warm. I got a glass out of the cupboard and poured a few inches out. (I don�t actually own a proper coffee mug.) It smelled wonderful. I swirled it around like wine, and the color wasn�t bad either. The glass warmed the inside of my hand beautifully. I put the glass up to my lips and tasted�

Blech. Right, appearance over reality.

I put the glass down on the counter, took another bite of the stale bagel, and stared into the refrigerator while I chewed. Two eggs left, but no time to make them; some apple juice that looked good but belonged to the roommate. Milk. I had milk. I checked the date on the side; only a few days left to finish it. There wasn�t really enough for its own glass, but I thought maybe if I mixed it with the coffee, I would be set.

The way milk swirls into coffee is another one of those beautiful things, rich and warm and creamy-looking like comfort on a rainy morning, which it was, by the way.

Again I lifted it to my lips, and though I could taste the coolness of the milk, it was still so bitter over the sweet. And the taste sat in the back of my mouth through the course of several facial expressions. I poured the rest of it down the sink and finished my hard-tack bagel.

At this point in an entry, I normally have some dramatic ending line like �And that�s why coffee is like life,� but I think today I�ll just leave it at that; coffee is too much bitter over sweet. And for some reason I never have the strength to walk away from it for good.

-stonebridge

previous | next