This’ll be the cup. I know it. “Let me try the Guatemalan,” I say. This hopelessly young shop girl looks at me like she would rather spit on me than serve me. But I’m not some new customer, so I know that I’m not anything special in terms of the being-spit on category. That look in her eyes she serves up liberally to any odd customer who wants anything from her.
Every morning she grinds the coffee and uses the French press to make me a fresh cup of coffee. The whole process takes about seven to eight minutes. It’s a hassle. This I know. Some mornings are busy too. When they are, then she really gives me a look–something that could only be formed with four letters. The first few times I came in she said, “You know we have a freshly brewed coffee of the day right here. It’ll take you less time.”
Each time I replied, “I know, but I’m looking for something special.” I was too. I was looking for that taste I had the first time I met the love of my life twenty-four years ago. That moment, right before I met her, I remembered thinking about the coffee, “Hey, that ain’t bad.” And then suddenly she had appeared.
So now, I go to the coffee shop, try one of their forty brands of coffee and think to myself, “Hey, that ain’t bad,” hoping she’ll appear.
I’ve already tried twenty three. But I won’t have to try them all. This’ll be the cup. I know it.
The hopelessly young girl has given up trying to change me. She hands me my cup of coffee: Guatemalan. Well, here’s to twenty-four years ago.
I take my sip, say the lines in my head and hope the universe pulls through.
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