I pulled a late-nighter last evening. The repose of slumber did not offer its mercy until after 1:00 AM. It’s now 8:05 AM.
I have ‘things’ to do.
Unmeasured, unaccountable moments later–I do not recall–the coffee begins brewing and I anticipate that first hot mouthful of stimulation with serenity.
The percolator is gurgling now as the reservoir empties into the decanter and mingled with that–the sizzle of steam that has condensed onto the hot plate. The silence crescendos.
Lifting the cup the first few desperate slurps are taken neat.
I notice the smell from my hands–I don’t mind it anymore. My morning face has aged–considerably–looks how my hands smell.
Only after the refreshing pleasantness of the brew fills my sinuses and I feel the fog rush out of my ravaged brain do I accessorize the refilled cup with a small measure of cane sugar and a quarter teaspoon of full-on whipping cream.
Well, that was then.
That was what I used to do anyway–to snuff out the zombie–before I developed a craving for Cerveaux Tartare.