Some people considered coffee making a morning routine. Others made an art out of it.
She had elevated brewing a good cup to a precise ceremony.
Just before morning dew pearled up on the lushious grass around the house, she filled the old kettle and left it to slowly warm up on the stove. She’d then take the glass drip to the table and set it on the old, worn out wooden plank. She didn’t like commercial paper filters, and much prefered to fold her own, letting her fairy fingers bend and fold the paper into a complex origami piece that always fit the ancient-looking coffee maker’s rim perfectly.
She only bought the best beans, and made sure to sort even the finest only to keep the ones that were worthy of losing their heavenly flavor to the almost boiling water. Every gestured meticulously studied, yet now so very natural.
She nested the chosen beans in the paper corolla, and checked on the water, as if she could possibly get the temperature wrong. She poured just the right amount on the dark brown beads, and waited patiently for the water to make its way into the glass container. It was a long process, but worth every minute spent waiting.
To anyone else, this whole choreography would have seemed silly.
Of course, she didn’t drink coffee. She had never managed to enjoy the bitter taste of even her finest brews. But she loved the smell of it. And she loved him. And he loved her daily, ritually brewed cup.
That was enough of a reason to master the art of making the best coffee in the world.
She closed her eyes, and breathed in the soothing aroma.
Suddenly, she teared up. How she wished he was still there to enjoy it.