This morning, my husband said to me, “I didn’t roast any coffee yet and we’re out of emergency beans. Would you like tea this morning?”
I felt my vision narrow into a grey-hazed tunnel and my body curl into itself. “Help?” I moaned weakly. “Coffee?”
Tea would just not cut it. Don’t get me wrong — I love tea, from the deep earthy murk of pu-er to the light fragrance of a Chinese green. I drink Darjeeling the way others drink wine — literally, because I’m no longer allowed to drink alcohol. It’s just that tea doesn’t have the body, the mouth feel, the fortifying nature of coffee. Tea is an afternoon indulgence; coffee is a trusty helper.
I am not a coffee addict. Truly I am not. I can quit anytime I want … except, apparently, this morning. Because I begged my husband to go out and get some coffee, and here I sit, now drinking the elixir of life. Richard is the hero of this piece by bringing me coffee.
Words Like Me 