I always start my day with coffee.
I wake up earlier than you but later than most others.
Before I get out of bed, I silently stare at you.
Your eyes closed, your arms folded.
I quietly walk downstairs.
It are two staircases, wooden ones.
I enter the kitchen.
It feels cold but somehow I don’t really mind.
I fill the kettle with water and put it on the stove.
The slow and steady hissing sound of gas sounds loud in the empty kitchen.
I grab a cup from the cupboard and put a filter on top.
It is a paper filter, made specially for slow coffee.
I open the bag of grinded beans.
They smell like a blend of blueberry and honey with a velvety scent.
This is what the label on the bag tells me.
I take one scoop of grinded beans and put it in the filter.
Just the right amount.
The water is boiling.
I turn off the gas and take the kettle from the stove.
I pour the water on the grind.
Slowly, and in circles.
A continous motion.
The coffee fills the cup.
The motion is discontinued.
I hear you wake up and call for me.
Or actually, calling for coffee.
I repeat the coffee ritual.
In the kitchen.
I still don’t mind the cold.
After I finish preparing the second cup, I walk upstairs.
You’re not at the table.
I walk up the second staircase.
You’re still in bed.
Your eyes open, your arms unfolded.
We meet here every day.
Just like Billy Paul and Mrs. Jones.
But in the morning.
We drink our coffee.