black coffee
It was a rainy, groggy Tuesday morning. You have just woken up after calling in sick for the few responsibilities you had for the day. You get out of bed to look at yourself in the mirror, presenting the clammed eyes and the usual bedhead. Nothing that much different, except the hair seems to be sticking out in forty more different directions than the average.
You sleepily approach the coffee machine for a sip of bean juice, contemplating whether or not to make it watered-down-iced or hot. Both seem depressing. You decide to press the button anyway, and as the coffee slowly starts to dribble into the pot, you prepare the milk and soft music to slowly bring the mood to a less post-apocalyptic state.
The coffee soon finishes brewing, leading you to pour a fresh cup for yourself. It's hot. Not burning, but just enough to make you feel like it could make you drop the cup if you held it for long enough. You glance at the cold milk jug. You continue to stare at it. Sighing, you decide to drink the coffee in your hands, black.
Not surprisingly, it tastes the same as always. The bitterness, the intensity, everything.
Yet, for once, it's bearable.