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Over a cuppa

December 19th, 2012

 Coffee Tumbler“Do you think, um…, would you like to have a drink with me?”

“Only if it’s black with two spoonfuls of sugar. I’d like to stay sober while you explain why you are not an axe murderer.”

Ah, may I take this opportunity to compliment you on the excellent choice of beverage that you have ordered to your table?

I, by the way, am a cup of coffee.

I look like it, an innocent ceramic mug/steel tumbler/disposable commuter mug/cutting glass full of equally guileless hot/cold/medium tempered liquid specifically designed to make your time spent hovering over it memorable; at least for the period that caffeine takes to rage about and settle down in your system.

But I am not. So naïve, I mean.

The instant I am set on a counter, meant to be consumed, I become privy to knowledge at once so all encompassing, it gets excruciating like being placed on a scorching stove (right, that) and you would find me just desperately waiting to be drunk.

Conversations ensue casually over my aromatic presence, while I am increasingly made aware of my support as an acoustic prop not so different from the fabric wrapped around the seating. Wafting together with my redolence are serious, funny, flaky, momentary, even tasteless talks concerning life, love, secrets, bonding, socializing, and feelings. Particularly feelings; of love, between two members of a species, caught in the tangled web woven for a basic cause along the lines of procreation on a macro level.

My vantage point on the countertop allows me to be a witness to some of the most passionate exchanges in the Eukaryotic jungle.

“I…umm, I love you! There, I said it.”

“Awesome! You get to pay for my espresso now.”

Or

“I love you! You can sit there thinking of all the nonchalant responses in this world. But, there’s got to be an answer from your end.”

“You’ve got a point.”

Or yet

“I love you. Say something!”

“Err, Sir, I’m just the serving assistant. The lady accompanying you, I guess, has gone to use the restroom.”

My past interactions, with humanoids who imbibe me, have led me to believe in the power of persistence nonetheless. As I continue to exist in a perpetual phase of dispassion, the tenor of the colloquy above me moves through altering modes.

“I…-”

“I…uh, love you too.”

And

“What would you like to have, honey? They have the best lattes here. Especially the peppermint flavoured one.”

“Oh, anything you like. Peppermint sounds interesting.”

“It tastes way better than it sounds, trust me.”

In addition to

“Damn, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Was I very late?”

“Oh, spending two hours and twenty minutes waiting outside the café, in the rain, because they refused to let me linger at a table inside during peak hours is nothing. It’s okay, my love.”

Gravity, as a law, sustains convention by holding on to everything in the manner of its own assets, thereby reserving the right to pull anything back from its roaring crescendo.

“But, but you said you’d wait a lifetime for me.”

“That was then. This is now. I can’t believe you let me be here twiddling my thumbs for ten minutes.”

Better still

“We are always arguing. It’s not you, it’s me.”

“You will never find anyone like me. I can tell you that!”

Toward

“It’s not you or me. I think it’s the universe.”

“What!?!”

Until

“And yes, for the record, your dental braces did bug the hell out of me back then!”

“What the..-”

Clink. Splash!

I finally break from my state of inertia as the contents of my receptacle are hurled spitefully onto the human’s face. But for the fact that the act ought to be considered as an insult, I find it curiously more comforting than being slurped into the oral cavity. In one split moment suspended in time, I experience an elation otherwise denied to me in my mundane existence.

I have arrived.

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