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The compromise of coffee I hate coffee and its yellow-teething, stale-breathing, caffeine-craving cousins. Especially gourmet blends that relocate my money to registers and tip jars, well-placed near a plate of biscotti and scones. . . . Well, except for the smell, of course, unavoidably sharp, lingering like a new friend, revealing uncanny similarities in that sliver-time before we find each other’s little flaws. It’s all about Aroma then, wafting in amiably, like a warmhearted woman in hip jeans and cool boots, who twinkles and flirts and gets extra punches on her card just for smiling near the counter. The door opens and she greets me, a fragrant invitation streaming softly through kissable cocoa lips, “Just espress-o yourself, dah’ling.” It’s hard to place blame when I’m hanging in her house, stealing snippets with her friends; she means well in her trendy, bean roasted shell. I’m flattered that she thirsts for a sip of my friendship. (Hey, don’t we all mingle best with a cup or glass of something good in the bed of our hands?) My perfumed friend, so earthy like Sumatra, spicy like Arabian mocha, sweet as espresso roast, with a hint of Yukon-mellowness and Kenya’s citrus notes. Her secret? Always opt for a heavy dollop of self-diluting whipped cream. Left at the mercy of my percolating beliefs, olfactory-imprisoned, searching for a social fix– I’d never offend such a gracious-smelling, well-grounded, satisfying host. I sigh and buy our compromise– decaf, skim milk, heavy on the Hershey’s, oh, and please go light on that mountain of white. So easily enticed, whipped like good cream, I savor each tooth-staining drop, scoffing at myself– Yes, I’m just another stale-breathed, penniless, coffee shop junkie, high on spicy conversation and well-blended warmth. |
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