Novel & Cerita Slow Burn Coffee

Chastity smiled shyly at him. “I will. On one condition.” Colby said. “What condition?” Chastity asked sadly. “Tell me how the hell you make your coffee so good. Every other coffee tastes like shit compared to yours.” Colby grumbled. “Really?” Chastity laughed. “Hell yes! The only good coffee is yours. All the rest is crap.” “Fine. One spoon of french roast, one spoon of hazelnut, and one spoon of dark roast. But them in a container, shake it well, then dump in the filter, and start.”

Till they see the work we put in to get to where we are, and also maintain it. Coffee. I stand, stretch, and cross to the small counter by the window. The pot is cold; I reheat it in the microwave, watch the dark liquid swirl like storm water. Bitter, burnt, perfect. The first swallow scalds my tongue and jolts a little clarity into the haze.

Before I’d seen Max’s body burn with something that wasn’t fever but something darker…older. The machine clicked off, and I poured a cup, holding it between both hands. The heat sank into my fingers, soothing and burning at once. I looked at my coffee not taking a sip. I stood there, letting the steam waft up into my face, letting it cover the room until I felt something.

I wondered if she caught on to how fake I was being with her. “Thank you! I really needed that.” I gave a smile. “Did you practice?” “A few times,” she said with a chuckle. “I am sure they will love it,” I responded before taking another sip. I love this coffee. Medium Roast, with a tablespoon of milk, two teaspoons of French vanilla coffee cream, and three scoops of sugar. I like my coffee sweet. I found myself gulping as much of it down as I could. It was no longer hot, but a perfect warm. I’d be damned if I wasted another cup. I finally took the foam from my lips. 10 am. It was time. “Let’s head over.”

Around here I doubt that someone is coming to rob us, but it is better to be safe. He lets go of me and closes the door when I finish coming in. "Let's go have coffee." I think we have a lot to talk about. I put an arm around her shoulders. "Maybe it's a little late for coffee." How about a water chocolate? —It refers to liquid chocolate, which is almost a national anthem. It is nothing more than a chocolate with sugar, a pinch of salt, more water than chocolate tables and perhaps a cinnamon stick. It is the breakfast of the poor, as some call it. I call it delight.

Sure enough, his voice slid across the mind-link and answered my unspoken suspicion. ‘Get me a large, iced caramel macchiato with four pumps of vanilla—not the sugar free shit they have, and extra caramel drizzle. If Katie’s at the register, tell her I want coconut cold foam on top. She’ll know what to do. Oh, and have them make the three shots ristretto. It’s just too bitter if they aren’t, completely ruins the flavor of the drink.’ I pinched the bridge of my nose, fighting off the headache that was already forming.

Steam danced above the liquid, floating in slow motion as it left traces of rich caramelized nuts. I licked my bottom lip as I watched my cup get filled. Coffee turned into my new addiction after I quitted smoking. At least that's what everyone thinks. I groaned as I watched the thin line of liquid that connected the machine and my cup vanishes. It made a noise similar to water being drained down the bathtub followed by the clicking of something broken, drowning the peaceful sound. I pulled out my cup. I groaned and then disconnected the machine before hitting it.

I swear the shadows are following me as I walk to work, yet I feel protected and safe with them. The smell of coffee surrounds me and I sip a Roasted-Toasted black. Roasted-Toasted is my special headache flavor, it is half French roast and half toasted almond coffee. It’s warm and inviting like a hug, yet bitter like the taste on my tongue after my arguments with Kyle. “Shit! Flavor of the Day is Roasty-Toasty! It’s that bad, huh?” Lee observes.

“I agree. We escalate this right now.” Morning continues to unfold. The sun climbs higher in the sky. I stand and move to the kitchen. The cold tiles press against the soles of my feet. I switch on the coffee maker. The machine gurgles and breaks the heavy silence. The rich, bitter aroma quickly fills the entire room. I pour steaming coffee into two mugs. I take a cautious sip and feel the heat sear my tongue. Then I carry both mugs back to the table. The wood feels warm under my elbows as we settle in across from each other.

Professional. He seemed thrown for a second. His brow furrowed slightly, the prepared script of contempt disrupted. He was probably expecting me to cower, to look at the floor, to be the shrinking victim he was used to. “Uh. Three large coffees. Black,” he said, the words coming out a bit slower than usual. “Sure thing,” I said, turning to the grinders. I moved with an efficiency I didn’t usually feel when he was here. I measured the beans, pulled the shots, my movements smooth and confident. The warm, bitter scent of espresso filled the air around me.