Padding bleary-eyed into the
kitchen, I grope my way towards sanity, towards my little miracle. Only it can
soothe my parched throat and banish the vague nightmares that still skitter
through my brain like the deformed creatures they are.
A simple routine, but I
relish it. Moving like an automaton, I check the water level in the machine and
flip the on switch, take out the milk (thank God there's milk!) and reach for
the coffee, the spoon, the sugar. As I measure the finely ground espresso
powder and tamp it into the compartment, I breathe in deeply, the dark complex
aromas swirl in my flared nostrils promising me revival and a return to the
world of the real.
Without the aroma,
would I enjoy coffee as much? I wonder, but then dismiss the thought as foolish.
It was like imagining a sun with no heat, a sky with no blue, a heart with no
love.
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