Member-only story
FLASH FICTION
Morning Worship
At the altar of Keurig.
December 1st Microfiction
I pull a cup down from the cabinet strategically located right over my coffee maker. I love my single-cup brewer — I never have to guess the water ratios to spoonfuls of grounds. Just pop the pod in, snap the lid shut, and press the button. I want the big one today, of course.
There’s a dull ache in my head, a reminder of the night that I can’t remember well. My kitchen’s fuzzy in front of my eyes, but instead of trying to focus my brain, I just absorb the scent of my brewing coffee. I inhale it deeply through my nose and hold onto that breath for a moment before exhaling. The gurgling of the stream that’s pouring into my cup bears a promise of pleasure that I shall indulge in.
I remind myself that I don’t have to waste this time waiting for my cup to fill — this time can be better used getting the creamer from the fridge. I shake the bottle of French Vanilla while I bring it back to the counter and inhale the scent of my coffee once more. It’s already clearing my head just a bit and I am getting a distinct sense that I’m forgetting something. What I am forgetting, I don’t yet know. I have to savor this cup first.
Swirling the creamer into the blackness, I watch as it turns a rich caramel color before I lick the spoon and place it on the edge of the sink. I will need it again very soon. Returning the creamer to the fridge will give the coffee just enough time to cool off ever so slightly for my first sip.
I bring it to my face and blow across the top before slurping in the first delicious swallow of my elixir. My eyes close in enjoyment as the liquid trickles down my throat and warms my chest. I take another sip and audibly moan at how indulgent it feels.
“Good Morning, Gorgeous,” the voice that greets me from the kitchen doorway nearly makes me drop my cup.
I startle, sloshing my hot beverage out onto my bare toes, then jump, wincing in pain as more splashes out. I don’t know what to tend to first — the mess that I just made, my burning feet, or the stranger in my kitchen who is chuckling softly at my predicament.
I turn to look at him and memories flash back at me in spurts and dribbles from last night. Oh.
He grabs a paper towel from my counter and bends to wipe my feet and floor. This view of him certainly feels familiar — he looks up at me while on the floor between my legs. How could I have forgotten? I blame the lack of caffeination.
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