Coffee Bean

Every morning, following a night spent battling crime, I'd rise from the scant hours of sleep I managed and indulge in a steaming cup of coffee. Exiting my bed, I'd navigate past strewn boots, belt, and cape, and venture into the kitchen. There, amidst the lingering aroma of beans, I'd meticulously grind, boil, and strain, watching as the dark elixir flowed into my cherished mug. A touch of cream, a spoonful of brown sugar—no more, to preserve the coffee's robust essence. It was a ritual, time-consuming but essential; none of that instant shit would suffice.

The morning symphony of brewing was a sanctuary within my cozy New York City apartment, evoking nostalgia for simpler times, if only for the duration of my sip. Yet, the absence of my wife, currently visiting her mother in Columbia, left an unmistakable void. For seven days, I traversed the solitude, longing for the shared intimacy of a morning coffee, a ritual that transcended mere beverage consumption.

My envy peaked at the thought of her amidst Columbia's renowned coffee culture. However, my yearning was met with a surprise upon her return: a bounty of Colombian coffee beans, a testament to her understanding of my predilections.

Come lunchtime, I'd frequent my beloved pizza joint, nestled conveniently around the corner. Here, amidst the savory allure of a plain slice, I'd indulge in a peculiar pairing: a vanilla bean latte. The server's disdain for my order was palpable, a sentiment he voiced with each begrudging preparation. Yet, I remained resolute. If coffee and pizza were an incompatible duo, why have a coffee machine at all?

When my order arrived, I settled in to savor my meal. As I raised the paper cup to my lips and tasted the hot coffee, a wave of nostalgia swept over me, carrying me back to my childhood. A time when coffee was forbidden fruit, guarded jealously by my parents. Despite my incessant pestering, they remained steadfast in their denial, until one fateful morning when my mother relented. That first sip left me recoiling, the bitter, searing sensation lingering unpleasantly. It was a lesson learned: a taste of something longed for, only to be met with disappointment. I understood then why children weren't meant for coffee; it was an acquired taste, one that I had yet to acquire.

From that day, my fondness for coffee waned. It wasn't until I reached seventeen that I ventured back into its realm, and even then, daily consumption didn't ensue until my twenties. Yet, the memory of the aroma permeating our home, of my parents sharing quiet moments over steaming cups, remained etched in my mind. Their love, palpable in those shared moments, mirrored the affection I would one day find with Hortensia.

Our meeting, serendipitous as it was, occurred in a coffee shop. Hortensia, engrossed in James Baldwin's "The Fire Next Time," caught my eye. With Baldwin being a personal favorite, I couldn't resist striking up a conversation about the book.

"How do you like the book?" I inquired, intrigued by her reading choice. "Baldwin sure does have a way with words, doesn't he?"

"It's powerful," she responded, her gaze meeting mine. "Not as good as Giovanni's Room, but perhaps that's because of the thought-provoking content."

Her eloquence sent a shiver down my spine. Obviously The Fire Next Time was better than Giovanni's room, but that was a debate for another day.

"But I suppose it's unfair to compare the two. What's your favorite Baldwin book?" she queried.

"Well, actually, it's a short story. Have you ever read Sonny's Blues?"

"No. Would you recommend it?"

"I would."

Her smile, as captivating as ever, stirred something within me. "Maybe one day, you can read it to me."

Caught off guard, I blushed, momentarily speechless. Breaking the silence, she introduced herself: Hortensia Williams Esperanza. Her background, a blend of Colombian and African American heritage, unfolded in our conversation. Raised in Colombia, she was nonetheless well-versed in the complexities of the African American experience, thanks to her father's teachings.

For over two hours, we delved into discussions ranging from black liberation to the failings of the education system and the school-to-prison pipeline. She, a social worker; I, a self-proclaimed superhero, a notion she initially met with disbelief. Yet, despite our differing worlds, we found common ground.

We agreed to reconvene at the coffee shop the following day, and so we did, time and again. Before venturing elsewhere, we shared countless cups of coffee, laying the foundation for what would become something extraordinary.

Inviting Hortensia over to my apartment sparked a memorable encounter. I brewed a pot of coffee, catering to her preference: black with two sugars, a habit she maintains to this day. As we exchanged literary treasures, I found myself engrossed in Baldwin's "Sonny's Blues," while she regaled me with passages from Gabo's "100 Years of Solitude," captivated by his sumptuous prose.

Hours of shared reading culminated in a tender embrace on the couch, lips meeting and bodies drawing closer, a warmth igniting within. With gentle intimacy, we undressed each other, our connection transcending the physical realm.

Post-tryst, we sat at the dining table, savoring another cup of coffee, laughter bubbling like the effervescence of youth, our bond deepening with each shared moment.

Between lunch and dinner, I indulged in another cup of coffee, a habit Hortensia reluctantly tolerated everywhere but the dinner table, a testament to our mutual respect and compromise.

As I prepared for my nightly endeavors as a crime-fighter, Hortensia would enter the bedroom with a steaming cup, the aroma of coffee preceding her. Placing it in my hand, she enveloped me in her embrace, whispering words of safety and love. Sipping the warm brew, I'd meet her gaze with a smile, reminiscent of simpler times spent playing superheroes with my brother, our parents watching from the sidelines, coffee cups in hand.

Even now, visiting my parents evokes a sense of home, the scent of brewing coffee mingling with familial warmth. My mother, without a word, prepares my cup just as I like it, affirming my sense of belonging with each familiar sip.