Three Hundred Sixty-Four

Some days, like today, I am more grateful for coffee than I ever expected to be. A cup of hot French roast coffee in my mug is my drug of choice; secret lovers, my coffee and I.

Buried deep in the recesses of my mind, I suspect there’s a memory of my first cup of coffee, but I can’t seem to get to that memory. Instead, my earliest recollection of drinking coffee is from my college days at the University of Texas at Austin. The coffee I drank was from a machine on the first floor of the UT Tower, where I’d go to read books among the “stacks” of the main library. I put my quarters in the machine, pressed a button that said “black, no sugar” or something like that, and waited for the machine to drop a waxy paper cup onto a tray. Then, in a moment, a nozzle pumped coffee into the cup. The coffee was bitter and only luke warm, but apparently I thought it was drinkable.

Coffee remains close to my heart. I’ll never abandon you, coffee.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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One Response to Three Hundred Sixty-Four

  1. Mary Lou says:

    I have a feeling that some day, if I ever need a transfusion, they will discover there is not blood running through my veins but instead a dark roast coffee.

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