the shepherd's sword

coffee

as the keurig coffee maker begins its rumbling, sputtering sounds, like an old man somberly getting to work, the smell of the organic dark roast rushes up in a rewarding first wave to greet her nose. she would smile if she weren't so tired.

it's a good smell. that's the only coherent thought that comes to mind as the beloved but noisy coffee maker continues to chug on, the almost-ebony liquid serenely pooling into the red porcelain mug. she drinks the coffee every day at least once, but usually twice, and she awaits the complex, bitter-sweet taste she knows so well and yet loves no less with something that is nearly excitement, but is more like weak anticipation. because, after all, she is tired.

the only way she can describe the smell of the coffee is rich, and not just in the edible sense. she has never been rich -not terribly poor, but certainly not with too much money to spare nowadays- but she is almost certain that being rich would feel exactly how that coffee smells.

but not entirely certain. she's much too worried and she's witnessed too many broken promises to be entirely certain of anything.

it's past eleven o'clock p.m. already, much too late to be drinking coffee, and she knows this. but this has become the routine, and it's a nasty habit not easily broken. she has a lot of bad habits. she doesn't think she's worth trying to break them. dreams of self-improvement died a long time ago for her.

the first drink, later, when the coffee has cooled, is so good that she immediately takes another, even though she always refuses to drink coffee quickly. she says it's blasphemy. she knows that the man upstairs probably doesn't appreciate that. she cares, but not enough to change. another bad habit. another reason she thinks she is nothing.

she has hemingway on her mind tonight. she wonders if he was as straightforward as his writing style. probably not, she acknowledges. writers are such convoluted things. messy minds. sad souls. ridiculous individuals.

it's a genuine but joking comment.

she is a writer.

she is very good at making self-deprecating jokes. another unbroken bad habit.

after several minutes she takes another drink of the coffee, this one slower, then licks the remaining coffee off her lips. she loves the taste of coffee on her lips and tongue. she's never understood why people apologize for coffee breath. she loves her coffee breath. she is dependent on coffee for the caffeine, but she also loves the taste; the two combined reasons lead her to drink far too much of it. she is sensitive to caffeine. it makes her emotional and it makes her hands shake.

she takes another drink, this one nipping at the left side of the roof of her mouth. she burned it a day ago when she had been too impatient to wait for her food to cool. she is very impatient. another bad habit.

a fifth drink, and then a sixth, and slowly the coffee disappears from the mug. fairly large amounts of time are usually taken between each drink, so that she can cherish each gulp, each rise of the tide, then let it die on her tongue and leave its traces there. that coffee breath she loves so much. that taste.

the clank of her teeth on the porcelain of the mug is actually quite satisfying to her, for whatever reason. perhaps it's simply the fact that it's a part of the coffee experience. perhaps that is enough for it to be considered good.

she has an assignment to finish and she doesn't want to touch it, but she knows she must. she wishes it could all just pause for a moment, until she had a few things figured out. but unfortunately, that is not possible, and her awareness of that fact frightens her.

death does not frighten her, but life does.

as the coffee disappears and she contemplates all these things and more with a blank expression upon her face, the clock ticks on, the ceiling fan above her whirs, and the crickets and cicadas and frogs make their noises outside her window.

the world goes on. she stops.

it's not a standoff, but she wishes it was.