My Affair With Coffee.

We seem to have fallen in a chasm of time wherein we have no beginning, and we will have no end. My father drinks coffee throughout the day. He drinks it black. Black and strong. It’s the Norwegian in him, all 100% of it. My grandfather was the same way, yet I never pursued a liaison with coffee while living at home. College introduced me to Java, but it was of the programming language sort. This Java was not so enjoyable first thing in the morning.

Then, I moved in with Miles. Miles was not a coffee drinker. Our roommate and friend was not a coffee drinker either&#8212but she had a coffeemaker. She picked up a carton of mocha creamer one day, and we made coffee to sip while watching The Golden Girls. We both loved watching The Golden Girls. (It seems as though every major female friendship I’ve garnered has held a special place for The Golden Girls.) If we were to mimic adulthood for one morning, barring all unsavory possibilities, it might as well be during The Golden Girls.

We went through 2 pots in an hour. I fell hard. It was love; I knew the signs.

It became our morning ritual, and one I looked forward to as soon as I awoke. I would shoo Miles out of the house so our coffee time could commence. Those mornings of being melancholy with his absence were a thing of the past now. I had coffee, coffee that would always be there for me when I needed it. Miles laughed at my giddy puppy love. He couldn’t understand. He thought I was just being silly, as some Lauras are wont to be.

Our relationship progressed to the point where I felt the need to acquire a larger coffee mug. I saddled up with a 16-ouncer. It was a gift from Miles, a means to cloak his increasing jealousy.

The months passed, the seasons stayed the same. (I live in a state that has summer and a sort-of prolonged spring) Miles and I would be moving into our own home soon&#8212away from the roommate; away from the coffeemaker.

I was consumed by my grief. WHY!? Why, after discovering something so precious did we have to part ways?

My beloved Miles discovered me at my lowest point late one night. I was in the kitchen downstairs while everyone was sound asleep upstairs. Eyes bloodshot, tears unchecked, nose sniffling, I sang brokenly,

Thank you for being a friend,
Traveled down the road and back again,
Your heart is true, you’re a pal and a confidant.

And if you through a party,
Invited everyone you ever knew,
You would see, the biggest gift would be from me,
And the card attached would say, “Thank you for being a friend.”

Miles rushed to me, unshed tears transforming his eyes into glistening pools. He comforted me then. “We’ll get a coffeemaker for the new place. I promise.”

He was totally marriage material.

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