It is 2.30 in the morning. I was about to close my eyes and try to get some sleep. However, right before I put my phone down and headed to bed, a cover of a familiar love song played. I got up like a man possessed. It wasn’t a particularly good cover either, very rough sounding. Something struck me.
Not a particular aspect of anything the singer did but a culmination of everything she did. How her fingers danced across the strings of her guitar, how she closed her eyes while singing; almost as if she had been picturing someone, how her voice cracked when she reached the end. What I realize now is that I cannot relate to any of these songs. I am moved, hell, shaken to my core by them. These people, deeply hurt by love, write incredible songs about them. And here I am, completely clueless about love, clutching them close to my heart.
I made myself an awful cup of instant coffee. The mug has on it, with silver writing: “Love is all you need.” The text mocks me. Still I pick up the mug and take a swig of the muggy liquid. It’s far from good and I’m not greeted by the usual warmth trailing down my throat but instead, a burning sensation that moves down into my stomach and stays there for a second before subsiding. Nevertheless, I take sip after sip.
I remember how I first started drinking coffee. Growing up, it was always this cool adult thing my parents told me I was too young for, and I could understand them. But as I grew, I think I was twelve, I had my first sips of coffee. It had tons of milk and sugar added to it. So much so that a proper coffee enjoyer wouldn’t even call it coffee. But it was sweet, and it was light. It also didn’t have anything imposed upon it like it does today. “I need to wake up!” or “Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my fix.” I was just drinking coffee for the sake of drinking coffee. All the sugar and caffeine, I couldn’t get enough. Day in, day out. If I wasn’t drinking coffee, I would be thinking of drinking coffee. Thinking about how far my next mug was. I hated the days when I couldn’t have it.
Soon enough, I was a teenager in high school. And of course, I was going to have my coffee with no milk, I was an adult after all. But it was still sweet, oh how sweet it was! The present me would consider it cloyingly sweet. But back then, I drank it up. I looked around at others and saw that they were also drinking coffee. Some even had favorite kinds. I wanted a favorite kind of coffee too! I tried, experimented. I drank coffee in every way available on the menu. Syrups, creams, aromas. It was overwhelming. Yet, I couldn’t overcome my fickle nature. Wherever I found the full-bodied aroma, I despised the acidity. The mellow cups, I criticized them for having no depth at all.
The years moved on until I was actually an adult. It was then I discovered the art of espresso making. It was beautifully intricate and infinitely personal. Each step of the way seemed incredibly enticing. Everything from bean selection to puck prep, drawing shots became a fixation of mine. I found my favorite bean type, experimented with all kinds of methods for preparation. In doing so, I believe I may have gone too far with it. Eventually, the coffee started to not agree with me. It didn’t sit right in my stomach. It got bitter. So I swore off.
I didn’t drink any coffee at all for a while. After a big break like that, I woke up one day and had a hankering for that familiar taste. I looked at the espresso machine gathering dust in the kitchen corner and I had no energy for it. Every step that I deliberately went through now seemed insurmountably difficult. I got up, went to the kitchen and made myself a cup of instant coffee. It helped. I didn’t want any more coffee, but I also felt guilty. It didn’t taste right and felt like an insult, an easy way out. Someone who truly knew how to appreciate coffee would spit in my face. Even to this day, I believe I haven’t made the perfect cup of coffee. Who knows, perhaps one day I’ll have the energy to. But as it stands, supermarket mud water is all I’m getting. It’s late and the coffee didn’t really help. I should sleep.