I start my day with coffee, always.
I wake up at the same time, always.
It is the time when my body tells me to awaken.
Always the same time.
I walk down two staircases, into the kitchen.
They’re wooden staircases but they don’t make the squeaking sound I always hope for.
Most days, I need to switch on the kitchen light.
Today is not one of those days.
The morning sun brings enough light into the kitchen, even with the window blinds closed.
I prefer to keep them closed.
The dimmed light completes my seclusion.
I put some water in the kettle and place it on the stove.
I turn on the gas.
I wait for it to boil.
While I wait I grab a cup from the cupboard, and a filter.
The cup is a tin cup, dark green with a black rim and white on the inside.
The filter is just white.
I grab a bag of grinded beans and put one scoop in the filter.
One scoop is enough.
The water has started to boil.
I take the kettle off the stove.
Slowly I start pouring the hot water on the coffee grind.
I let it bloom gently.
I pour a second time, slow and in a circling motion.
I can hear the coffee drip into the cup, the aromatic scent of the grind finding its way to my senses.
I pour a third time, slow and in a circling motion.
I wait for the dripping to stop.
My coffee is ready.
I take my cup and walk upstairs, just the one staircase this time.
I take a seat at my table.
It is a big, dark brown table made of wood.
It has an antique typewriter on it.
Ever so often I use the typewriter to write poetry.
The ticking of the keys, the ringing when you reach the end.
I take a sip from my coffee.
I let it swim around in my mouth and enjoy the plunge it takes into my stomach.
Damn good coffee.