I Hate My Wife. But I Love Coffee
Sometimes you don’t know what you’re missing.
Coffee dates were magic, even though I didn’t drink coffee.
I met her in college. She sat in front of me in our screenwriting class. A damn computer blocked my view of her, but I could hear her laugh. The bubbly, contagious laugh slowly constricted around me until I could do nothing else but ask her to coffee.
I hated coffee. As a kid I tried it a few times in my dad’s office. Maybe it was because he insisted on store brands. Or maybe because he doubled the suggested scoops per pot, but it left more than a bad taste in my mouth.
And yet, I asked. I did so because she walked in every day with a Starbucks cup, the smell of a sugary dry roast lingering in the air with her laugh. Her love of coffee was the one concrete fact I knew about her. If it meant I could sit across from her, no monitor blocking my view, I’d drink anything.
She was dating someone at the time. Someone who attended a different college in a different state. She said he had no problem with her grabbing a cup of coffee. I didn’t press.
Every week or so we’d meet at a different coffee shop. Downtown Savannah had more than a few. We’d order our drinks, her’s some kind of corrupted tower of whipped cream and seasonal flair…
