Coffee talk || 26 Auguest

The coffee today is strong. Not the kind that attacks the senses, but the kind that settles, heavy and purposeful, in the chest, a silent reminder that something. anything is real. I stir it lazily, observing the cream curl and twist like smoke trapped in morning sunlight. Hypnotic. Reflective. The world may explode outside this window, and I would barely register the way the vessel would be left empty.

I ponder over coffee as if observing it too intensely. The assurance of heat that precedes even the initial sip to the lips. The initial bite of flavor is too hot, biting shortly thereafter, giving way to warmth, a soft regret for its temporary bite. Others would refer to it as mere habit; to me, it is a ritual, a weak reference point in a day poised to melt into nothing. I notice details: the clink of spoon against porcelain, the steam curling up and vanishing as shy of its own presence, the bitter edges softened by sugar that holds back obstinately on complete surrender. Life in general is composed of such moments, small, unobtrusive, mostly unremarked. Coffee insists on attention.I would drink it forever if only I were concerned about its ultimate loss. I would sit here and observe the light cross the table and convince myself that the churning cream is a sign of things to come. But it is not. It is merely coffee, and that is sufficient.

The final sip is taken away. I place the cup down slowly, as one would leave a relic in its place of repose. I reach for a cigarette. The lighter lights; smoke wraps around me, indolent, indifferent. I take a deep breath, heat coalescing in the chest, the bitter flavor a small ceremony to remind one of one's own existence.

There is quiet here, not loud, not pressing, just here. Coffee. Cigarette. The inevitable march of the day, silent, unremarked, but sufficient.

Tea is still my favorite .

Sincerely,
Ahmed