I have tried to drink coffee several times during the course of my life. I drink it for the promise of it -- alertness, maturity, a strange connection to my Lutheran Ladies Circles who would drink out of stained white coffee cups in the basement of every Lutheran Church I stepped foot in. Consuming the liquid I would murder with tons of sugar and creamer did not do much more than keep me regular and toss my stomach about. So I quit.
Tonight I had Turkish Coffee. My friend Kristen served it to me in a tiny delicate cup and instructed me to wait for the grounds to settle. While I waited, I spoke to her about the history of my Ex and stirred my memories of hurts that had been ignored into the conversation much like she had stirred the sugar into the coffee pot perched on the gas stove earlier. She patiently waited for me to take my first sip, warning me that it might be hot.
Turkish coffee is sweet with cinnamon lingering with chocolate lingering with coffee. I drank it quickly then asked for seconds until finally, minutes before 1:00AM, I took my sad stories and left-over Kebsa home.
Six hours later I am still awake and writing my first blog post in over a year -- writing my first non-facebook thought since before the sad, since before the red flags came into focus, since before the Ex and whys.
I may need more.