It looks black in the pot but, as I pour, the chocolatey silkiness seeps into my pupils. Drop drop: it spills the familiar spill. Every time I think “I must buy a new pot” and every time I forget as I get swept up in the buzz of the caffeine high. It’s a dull day outside, awash with grey and stillness. The trees standing to attention holding tightly to their last few days of greenness as autumn settles in.
I open the door for some air. It’s cooler than I expect: the humidity being brutal for the last few months. Cars trundle past and each one drowns out the cicadas for brief interludes until the incessant screeching returns. It’s funny how once one hears something it’s a challenge to un-hear it. The cars intrude on my thoughts. The house is quiet; a rare occurrence. The babe sleeps soundly his morning nap becoming his main siesta. The man is lost in technology and I’m absorbing the beans arming myself with the ‘hit’ before the chaos ensues once more.
I wish I’d made a bigger pot. The small pot is never enough. Why do I always follow my conscience when it comes to food and drink, later to feast on all of the things I deprived myself of to display some sense of virtue. Damn you small coffee pot. I boil the kettle again. ‘Maybe I’ll have peppermint tea…’