I Sipped From My Cup of Coffee…


I sipped from my cup of coffee. It was Monday morning. I was sitting at my office desk. I put the cup back down and looked at it. The cup took up a nice spot just off to the side of my monitor. Easy enough to reach.
Easy enough. It was never quite right though. It was either too hot, too cold, too empty, too full, too bitter, too much cream. There was always something I could complain about. Maybe that’s what the problem was. I was looking for something to complain about.

Regardless of that, the one thing that that cup of coffee represented was a momentary spot of solace. It didn’t matter what was going on, grabbing that cup, sipping from it, placing it back down, those actions take me away (much like I understand Calgone works for women).

**************

I sipped from my cup of coffee. It was Saturday morning. I was sitting in Panera’s. My laptop open, my books in front of me. Homework. Got to love homework. Especially over spring break. Such is the life of an adult college student. On top of the reading and essay writing I have to do for a grade, I also have several stories that are half-finished (or is that half started?) that I really want to be working on.

A car parks right in front of the door, the sun glinting off the windshield right into my eyes. I grab the coffee and drink the last bit left in the cup. Sigh. It’s almost like everything is working against me to keep me from accomplishing anything today. Distractions abound. And now I need more coffee.

**************

I sipped from my cup of coffee. It’s Sunday morning. My wife is in the car next to me. We are northbound to visit my son and daughter-in-law. It’s barely 9 a.m. and the coffee is doing very little to actually wake me up. Yet. My wife chats away, talking about college or her job or how much I don’t listen… or something like that.

I’m driving her Corolla, the one we no longer have. Totalled in a car accident two days before my birthday. She’s fine, getting better everyday. But the car. I liked that car too. Got great gas mileage and because I drive a pick-up, when I get into her car, I tend to treat it like I’m Jason Statham in “The Transporter”. Buckle up. It was a good car.

**************

I sip from my cup of coffee as I write this.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Weaving the Threads.”

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