AN OVER-CAFFEINATED MERMAID AND THE WAY SHE TAKES HER COFFEE

I take my coffee hot, dark, black and bold. I take it as warmth in my hands and a burn on my tongue. I take it as bitter as possible, and don’t hesitate or flinch at the first steaming sip. I take my coffee at least once daily. I take it in mugs next to my book in bed, in to-go cups in the cup holder of my car while I wait for the day to begin. I take my coffee on trains, while I’m waiting, and while I’m going. I take it while moving very fast through life and while life is moving very fast past me and I take it when everything is still. I take it on airplanes and in cafes of foreign cities, all delightfully uncertain, and going cold before I can make up my mind, or finish talking to that stranger. I take it with my sister in a massive Styrofoam cup, until I’m shaking and forget how to shut up. I take it in a brick walled kitchen in my dad’s apartment in the city, with music playing and all the windows open, all the breezy musical steam floating in visible circles above us. I take it as an excuse to sit idly before I am expected to do things. I take it while I do them too, and after they are done. I take it racing around a restaurant serving pizzas and racing through lab reports. I take it after nice dinners with my mom and I take it while I ponder the meaning of live on back decks with my best friend and breakfast delivery. I take my coffee quiet and calm. I take it silent, but chatty and jittery too. I take it always excitedly, and always along on my adventures. I take my coffee like magic. I gulp it down until I am full of magic myself, right before I make something beautiful. I take my coffee with a touch of romance, often on first dates, and more often on second and third and forth ones, and it never tastes the quite the same but I love it always nonetheless. I take my coffee all bittersweet and paired with heartbreak, when romance isn’t as sugary as it seems. I take it filled to the brim with revenge plans of all revenge plans, and of other less cynical plans too. I take it spilling over with choices, ideas, decisions, and over ambitious goals.

The way I take my coffee tastes like nostalgia of everything I have ever done and anticipation of everything I am going to do. When it tastes like him, or him, or you, I spit it out and brew a new pot that tastes only like the endless possibilities of the universe and like me. It smells like all of the gorgeous people I will meet and cities I will explore, and nothing like those coffees we forgot about and never got a chance to finish on the fourth of July. I take it beside rambling rants and satisfied sighs and the loveliest of laughs and I spill it all over the best ideas I have ever had and share sips with the best people I have ever met.

I take my coffee with a cup of honesty, a spoon full of certainty, and a sharp stinging shot of straightforwardness. I take it dark with people who make me feel light and strong with people who aren’t all soft and sugar coating and watered down. I take it black with bright ideas and with a hint of hazelnut, hold the excuses and confusion. I take it ritualistically and religiously and not just when you happen to be in town.

I guess what I am trying to say is that you have no idea the way I take my coffee anymore and that I would love to go grab some this weekend, but it wouldn’t taste right with you.

 

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