For the second morning in a row today, a co-worker spilled my coffee, completely, before I had the opportunity to take one sip. What are the odds of that? Today really pissed me off, childishly so. It's not the caffeine deprivation--I drink decaf. It's not the money--we're talking cheap gas station and Burger King coffee here, a buck or so a styrofoam cup.
It's the dashing of expectation, the sudden absence of routine. The kicking out of your crutch. Especially on these suddenly chilly-again mornings, that first sip or two of too-hot liquid, the warming of the hands--all of it not nearly as tasty or refreshing as merely comforting. The sheer sensations--touch, smell, taste--that inform you yes, you're alive and awake much too soon, but all will be well, or at least tolerable, because this cup of coffee is familiar, the same arms that have coddled you and propped through so many similar mornings of rather-not-ness, for years now.
But yesterday and today, there it was, those loving arms, that dependable crutch, that familiar salve of life in morning, leaking out hurriedly, sopping insentient books and pavement, and through some quirk of mis-engineering pooling into a grin, as if smirking, "You're on your own, today, son. As you are every day, despite your delusions." I could do without the gas station/Burger King philosophizing. I could also do without my co-worker telling me, "Maybe it's God's way of telling you to drink less coffee." God may speak in mysterious ways, but I doubt He/She/It adopts den mother tones.
So tomorrow I'm super-gluing the cup to my hand. I'll deal with the skin-ripping consequences later, like after I finish re-establishing sanity to my awakening.
Marianne Faithfull-Black Coffee
Mississippi John Hurt-Coffee Blues
One less cup of coffee for the road.
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