I can’t help it: I love coffee. It sends me ricocheting off the walls whenever I drink it, but, after a cupped handful of mountain spring water, there is no other drink that quite fills the spot. There is something about the bitter, furry bite that greets the mouth with a hospitality not unlike a warm embrace from a lover, and the desire for more never quite slips away, no matter how much you resolve to abstain. Walk into a room pulsing with the musk of coffee and, like the scent of a lover’s body, the antennae in your brain spring up and the floor turns to clouds.
With my diabetes I really shouldn’t be drinking the stuff, and for the most part I restrain myself. But occasionally the gastronomic bad boy in my taste buds gulls me into adultery against the jug of fresh lemon-flavored water in my refrigerator. I woke up this morning unrepentant after a brief affair with two cups of coffee last night, which kept me up half the night, half delirious and lusting for more.
To my dismay I found the coffee jar empty when I attempted to steal one last sip a little while ago. All that was left were the mug and the spoon. Even a look through the rest of the kitchen drawers provided no relief.