The phone rings and I let it. Water boils in the kettle. The deep earth scent of coffee like loam on my tongue. I miss morning silence. The time before alarms and lists, time without dancing pixels and click here, the seductive chime of messages waiting, the mystery of comments and responses.
Too many hours spent flying from myself.
The water spills on fresh grounds with an eager splash. It takes patience and attention to make good coffee; water just hot enough, grind perfectly coarse, time, a slow hand on the plunger. I stand at a borrowed kitchen counter and simply wait. The smell almost as delightful as the first taste will be, dark, bitter. Coffee--a gentle punishment. A secret guilt.
A mug I spent weeks creating sits smoothly against the hand. I could pick out all its flaws: Lip too flared. Foot too shallow. Belly too thick. Glaze patchy and uneven. Handle too spindly. But I can also praise it, fill it with hot liquid softened the color of birch wood by cream.
One sip. Almost too hot is just right. The scald tingles, the warmth sears its way down my throat. The pleasure of the drink. The pleasure of the cup. The pleasure of the words flowing out of silence and stillness and no expectations.