It Never Was About the Coffee

by Foster Trecost

It’s not often I finish a cup of coffee. I start out with every intention, but it gets cold long before I reach the bottom. The last sips feel familiar. Like something that's been waiting too long. Or maybe stopped waiting. I don't care for these feelings. So I leave them in the cup. 

I thought about starting with less. Maybe half a cup. A manageable amount. But I don’t like the look of it. That shallow, defeated slosh at the bottom of the mug. It feels like accepting failure, even before I’ve failed.

And I’ve done that too many times already.

So I fill it to the top. Steam rising. Dark. Full of promise. I tell myself this time I’ll stay with it. This time I won’t get distracted. I won’t wander off mid-morning. Or stare out the window, lost in thought.

I tell myself lots of things. One day, I’ll learn to listen.

The day pulls me away. It always does. By the time I come back, the surface has lost its life. The warmth is gone. I take one last sip, just to see if it’s salvageable.

It never is.
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Still, each morning I’ll fill my mug. Not because I think I'll finish it. But because I'm not ready to admit it never was about the coffee. 

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FOSTER TRECOST writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very short. Recent work appears in Literally Stories, Fabula Argentea, Across the Margin, and Roi Fainéant. He lives near New Orleans with his wife and dog.

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