Batch #23

I start my morning with coffee, always.
These days, however, have been different days.

I wake up in the same way as always.
My body tells me it’s time, I open my eyes slowly and get out of bed.

The bed is different,
the room is different,
you are different.

I open the curtains, which I normally don’t have, and notice my entire world is different.

I’m in Paris.
The sky-scraping steel of the Eiffeltower tells me this much.

I return to the bed, lie down beside you and stare.
Your eyes open as slow as the dripping drops of slow filter coffee.
A gentle smile, a soft kiss.

A thirst for coffee, the both of us.

I put on some clothes, kiss you on your lips.
The door closes.

There are no stairs here, just elevators.
I push the button, get in and find my way down.

I walk my way through a bright, long hall.
Footsteps echoing like the dropping of ice cubes in a glass.

The streets of Paris.
Vibrant, colourful, dirty.
A cafe on the corner.
Vibrant, colourful, tasteless.

I order a cup, or two.
They don’t have the slow ones.
“We don’t serve your kind”
… of coffee.

Espresso it is.

I walk my way back through the bright, long hall.
The sound of footsteps,
muffled on a carpet that wasn’t here before.

The elevator goes up, slower than it goes down.
The aroma of espresso fills the space.

I step outside, a door closes in the corner.
An escape exit, staircases.

I open the door to the room,
our coffee ready.

The curtains are closed.
The bed is empty.
You are not here.

I put down the two cups of espresso.
I take a seat on the edge of the bed.
The bed is the same.
The room is the same.

You were never here.
I was never there.

The only thing different,
the coffee.


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