The Best Cup of Coffee

By Bernard John Abraham

And the sunlight from the window betrayed me when I thought it was going to be the morning of all mornings.

The wind caressed my face, thinking it was your hand that got me out of bed; only to find out that the day was murky -- and I was soaked. I heard the phone ring and picked it up. Your voice was on the other end, you were saying words I could barely hear for I am still groggy from the hangover of the treacherous dream that I knew was too good to be considered a reality.

Then I sat at the edge of my bed (which would soon become my coffin), with a cigarette in one hand and disbelief on the other, staring at the steaming cup at the floor right in front of me. And I knew that you probably laughed when I scalded my tongue upon the first gulp of the bitter truth and watched me erupt in flames, into consumed bits in the ashtray with a smile.

Well, somehow, I did, too, myself.

I’m not to be put off, though the day threatens me with a deluge; though the walls close in on me and the room seemed to get smaller; though the words over the telephone slice through my mind creating an idea that it was just a bad dream of nighttime conjuration -- or maybe I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
I’ll don my mask of a smile in seeming continuance of an illusion that started with this accursed morning.

So come. Make me believe that you’re the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had, and I’ll make you believe that I’m doing just fine. That I never got jolted out of my wits when I tried to sip you once.

Come. Make me believe that this was the best morning in my entire life, which will never be superseded by tomorrow, and I’ll try my best to make myself believe that I’m not holding back any tears or that I ever woke up from the dream that betrayed me.