Coffee, Black

I first drank coffee when I was in love with a silent, handsome painter back in college. He was, I believed, fascinating and mysterious in ways that made up for his not ever talking. We would cut class to get a cup of coffee and there we’d be in the campus diner; cute couple, dead silent. I, gripping my coffee mug, would peer, concentrated, into the black depths of, not of his eyes, but of my own coffee. Staring into my coffee postponed the moment, any moment, when he and I would need to talk. He never said a word. Then again, neither did I.

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