the secret life of your corner coffee shop

-the tea bags bleed their history into the water: bergamot of Tuscany, black tea of India. they hold their secret until coaxed and revealed by the heat and water. its scent makes me dream of the moment i will taste its exotic essence. the everlasting knowing of its presence has eavesdropped at tea parties for ages, including this one. (i close my eyes and am instantly transported to cucumber and smoked salmon sandwiches and clotted cream on scones). please keep your mysterious secret, i beg for its discretion.

-he closed his dark eyes one spring day and taught me to taste coffee. as the fringe of his dark lashes brushed his cheeks, he described the flavors as he experienced them, in almost hallucinogenic detail. under his spell, as he awakened my awareness, he unknowingly transported us to the rainforests of Costa Rica where these beans had been born. through the forest canopy, the leaves slapping my face, over the rivers, i was there with him, in the heat and the dappled light. somehow, the intimacy of this moment revealed itself to me, with others watching, in the midst of our daily chaos.

-the hot chocolate steamed its way from the samovar. at least, i have to assume it did, as the room was lit only by candlelight, the thunderstorm having left the house in darkness. i sat here alone in my pajamas, sipping history from a small cup, warming my hands. the warm sweetness of the chocolate comforted me as the storm flashed and crashed all around me, outlining the dark trees in the illuminated sky through the window. the cocoa was just the right balance of sweet and bitter and cream and somehow, this was the ultimate moment of perfect comfort. with him, without him, in darkness, in light, i am drawn back to this lonely place over and over again. it is my heart. it is my origin.

All writing contained in this website 1998-2005 by Betty A. Parker