Oh, here he comes.

Oh, here he comes.

That same sleepy look on his face. We’re doing this again, are we?

I see him coming because he left me out on the counter last time—like an animal. Not in the sink. Certainly not cleaned and put away like I deserve.

Yup. Cabinet opens. Glass jar. Red lid comes off.

Oh, he’s got me. Blech.

Right into that putrid sand. Those horrid granules.

Scoop. Dump. Tap tap. The metallic ping as I’m rapped on top of his Yeti mug.

Now the water. Room temperature.

He says he doesn’t have time to heat it.

“This is fuel,” he mutters. “It’s not about taste.”

Oh, I have friends, you know. Scoops who work with real coffee.

Breakfast blends. Dark Sumatrans. One guy’s on Chemex duty. Chemex.

Imagine that.

Sometimes the little one asks, “Are you making coffee, Dad?”

Hey Junior—got news for ya. This ain’t coffee.

This is an abomination.

But whatever.

To each their own, I guess.