G’mornin’. Writers can and often do find inspiration in just about any setting. You may or may not ever again see your morning coffee in quite the same way; yet I hope this little bit of fun involving java will help make your Friday a little easier to take. Enjoy.
“I was on my third cup of joe. It needed something, so I dumped sugar, cream, and a little caramel in it. It was better.”
OR
“The coffee was good and I knew it could only get better. It already had a mysterious dark side the first cup barely revealed, so I poured another, listening, sensing the eager liquid flow into my almost empty mug.
“Sipping now where before I’d intemperately quaffed, I allowed its spicy richness to linger as it hesitated over seeking taste buds. Nutty? Fruity? Exotic? The intense smoky brew was all that and more. Soon my mug was again empty. I knew I must have more. I knew another cup with what I would add was pushing it. I knew my finger was stuck in that stupid little handle.
“Gently extracting my finger, I began yet again to pour out that dark, warm elixir of life. Ah, but I stopped before the faithful mug was full. This time I introduced a spoonful of sweet sugary granules, each briefly sparkling as they dove into the heated depths of the waiting coffee. Did I say one? No, one would not be enough. Another sweet spoonful disappeared into the swirling, heady mix.
“Cool, thick, steadying cream was next. Enough? NO. More. As each wonderful ingredient was added, the level of coffee in the mug rose slightly, it’s now-fawnlike shades roiling, luxuriating like a stretching, yawning lioness as the sweetness and lightness gently eased through the entire cup.
“Last came smooth, comfortable, sleek caramel. Where the cream had quickly lightened the shades of my waiting cup, the easy-squeezy of caramel reversed the trend, tanning, then umbering the mug full of sweet, heavy java.
“Lifting the brim-full mug of caffeinated bliss, I first tested the temperature of heat rising from the heady mix on my lips. Hot, yet not too hot. It was time to taste that third cup for which I’d waited . . .
. . . . . .
“There were no adequate words. My tongue bounced and laughed as the first sip of coffeaque spread liquidly smooth toward waiting tastebuds. My tonsils, now a cranky 66, even gave grudging assent, although warning the creamy, smooth java to stay off their lawn.
“I knew nothing would ever replace each morning’s first couple of cups of rich, black, piping hot coffee. I knew nothing would ever keep me from the heady joy of sugared, creamy, caramelized amazingness that would surely follow. A-a-and I knew my right forefinger was again stuck in that cute, metrodiner mug handle.”