drip dripping in the stained carafe is the nectar of the sweet sulawesi beans we bought yesterday at a beanery tucked between a polish deli and a vintage t-shirt shop somewhere lower east. later, L and i will drink it with the batch of ensaymada, each topped with cheese shavings, ube jam pocketed inside, that i brought him. he, who only takes his coffee black, would feign swooning over my treacly gift. "this just melts in my palate," he would most likely say like cant, while diplomatically drowning the bits of sugared dough with generous wash of bitter coffee. then he would look up and throw me the most approving of smiles like i were a school kid done right. then he would silently gather our cups and bring them to the sink to wash immediately. and i'd be left there at the table praying that he wouldn't come back so quickly with a paper towel to wipe away the rings left by our cups enlaced like a perfectly solved mathematical problem.
