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.
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.