Liquid linchpin of coffee spilt, drunk, typed and spoken. Fumbling into morning I made coffee but it was sour and weak and scalding, I handed an apologetic cup to Superman who took it with two grateful hands. Organising my knees back under the doona I cupped my hands around the mug and carved out a small moment of stillness until Superman's coffee made its way out of his cup and onto my expensively laundered doona. It was an easy fumble, a sitting up and pushing backwards tilted nothing and the liquid slips.
The office was silent and cold echoed from wall to wall. Robert was absent and the room bent and flowed around the steam from my small blue coffee cup, the one I found on a fence and washed and washed until I was sure it would be safe. I did not like my job today, the papers spiked like migraines under my fingertips so I welcomed the happy distractions offered via email, text message and the odd outlawed scrabble move.
Gemma drank her fourth caramel latte today but she does not like them. She does not like bitter coffee staining tastes in her world. Gemma was studying, I should be studying. This feels like a mistake, the kind that brings the knife down sharp on your poor finger or tumbles you off the roof onto pavers or scalds across the inside of your mouth leaving days welted and tasteless. I am flailing in this course. I'm holding my long neck up and away from human hands pushing the bridle through frustrated air.
The Peach was dark when I climbed through its thick walls. The tide is still turning, gin clear shallow waters pull across my feet. I'm holding shoes high and loose in the fingers of my left hand, I'm pretty sure I'll need them soon enough. I boiled water in the kettle standing on my toes leaning forward on the kitchen bench to watch the steam curl and stick to the windows. I made coffee sour, strong and scalding then I walked it to the armchair and sat it on a nearby bookshelf.
Dad answered the phone and kilometres clicked into anachronisms. He's made it into the newspaper's social pages, now he can move to Melbourne, he's done his city, but don't all the other men his age have grandchildren? I laugh away the place he thought he'd be by now and the invisible toy cars and miniature train tracks, I sip at my coffee and he tells me the secret is to wear a splash of red, the editors always print pictures of people wearing red.
I'm staring at the pile of textbooks on my bed and looking for Superman's coffee stain. Its nowhere to be found and perchance its a miracle. There's nothing left but the dull thudding need to plow through this work. I'll write your essays, I'll reference your information, I'll warm my face over this coffee and pour myself through another ordinary day.
The office was silent and cold echoed from wall to wall. Robert was absent and the room bent and flowed around the steam from my small blue coffee cup, the one I found on a fence and washed and washed until I was sure it would be safe. I did not like my job today, the papers spiked like migraines under my fingertips so I welcomed the happy distractions offered via email, text message and the odd outlawed scrabble move.
Gemma drank her fourth caramel latte today but she does not like them. She does not like bitter coffee staining tastes in her world. Gemma was studying, I should be studying. This feels like a mistake, the kind that brings the knife down sharp on your poor finger or tumbles you off the roof onto pavers or scalds across the inside of your mouth leaving days welted and tasteless. I am flailing in this course. I'm holding my long neck up and away from human hands pushing the bridle through frustrated air.
The Peach was dark when I climbed through its thick walls. The tide is still turning, gin clear shallow waters pull across my feet. I'm holding shoes high and loose in the fingers of my left hand, I'm pretty sure I'll need them soon enough. I boiled water in the kettle standing on my toes leaning forward on the kitchen bench to watch the steam curl and stick to the windows. I made coffee sour, strong and scalding then I walked it to the armchair and sat it on a nearby bookshelf.
Dad answered the phone and kilometres clicked into anachronisms. He's made it into the newspaper's social pages, now he can move to Melbourne, he's done his city, but don't all the other men his age have grandchildren? I laugh away the place he thought he'd be by now and the invisible toy cars and miniature train tracks, I sip at my coffee and he tells me the secret is to wear a splash of red, the editors always print pictures of people wearing red.
I'm staring at the pile of textbooks on my bed and looking for Superman's coffee stain. Its nowhere to be found and perchance its a miracle. There's nothing left but the dull thudding need to plow through this work. I'll write your essays, I'll reference your information, I'll warm my face over this coffee and pour myself through another ordinary day.
Comments
I do like Mocha though. Hot chocolate with a little coffee in it.
Bring back the days of coffee houses filled with poets and essayists, drinking gritty, bitter, poorly-ground coffee, and washing it down with ale, say I!
Best drunk whilst reading great novels in front of roaring fires.
Enhanced by a whisky chaser and a pink sobranie. Oops, just posted my plans for the evening:-)
(wolfish bluesy strum of guitar)
Chilli chocolate coffee sounds nice.
Does the wolf dig the blues then? That is a good thing, I had thought I was fairly alone in my TJW mind you I generally sing along very badly whilst wearing pyjamas and folding laundry. That really is an alone sort of activity.
Starbucks also sells disgusting pies and quiches. They reheat them in the microwave, which leaves them both soggy, steaming hot in some places, and ice-cold in others.