hot coffee


She couldn’t seem to drink her coffee while it was hot. Other women took time for simple pleasures, surely.  The sun had just risen, her day about to start, but she lingered beneath the quilt. She imagined a morning in Paris, a slender woman sitting at a tile-topped table on a 4th floor patio, coffee tray and newspapers at the ready. A thin gold bangle slid down her wrist as she raised the fine porcelain to her perfectly painted lips, and drank. No hurry, no frantic pace.

The alarm buzzed, erasing the vision, and she rose. She snatched leggings and t-shirt from the floor then raced downstairs to start breakfast and make lunches for the kids. As the coffee machine burbled and the fresh brew filled the air, she emptied the dishwasher and folded the clothes. With her first cup poured, she leaned against the sink and contemplated her day. Her musings were distracted by a family of crows flying past the window, cawing and chirping, their daily forage begun. Their cries reminded her that she had to meet her son’s teacher today. There would be cawing, of that she had no doubt.

As four little feet pounded down the stairs, she smiled. She set down her cup and embraced her son and daughter as they bowled into her, their sweet, squeaky voices filling the kitchen and her heart.

When she returned from the school run, she saw her cup on the counter, untouched, cold. Hot coffee is overrated. She dashed the contents down the drain, washed the cup, and decided Paris, too, might be overrated.

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