How do you ask more of nice? Right? It’s tricky.
Stephen likes to greet me with a cup ‘o joe when I get up in the morning.
You know: java, café, brew, mud.
Even though, for me, “the morning” is defined as those first few hours I get up during the day, whenever that is (there are days when I wake up to the sounds of children coming home from school, to their parents, with their Filipino nannies, and days when I simply cannot tell just by looking at it whether the sun is setting or rising), my cuppa is always there. Regardless. So, too, is the milk that I like to put in my coffee.
No spoon. No stirring implement of any kind! Not even the left side of a pair of chopsticks.
What to do? Going to the kitchen for a stir stick after so nicely being presented with effortless beverage seems ungrateful – a critique, a rebuff, a mean undermining of a kind and unasked for gesture – and using what’s available on my work desk strikes as slightly toxic. There is no casually bringing up the issue – this hitch – outside of the situation (“Want to go see Ghost Rider Spirit of Vengeance?”/”I NEED A SPOOOOOON!”), which is exactly what is preventing me from doing so in the first place.
There is no doing without the milk.
My stomach can habour the sweet, sweet burn of up to four raw habaneros (it can!), but it rebels at a single drop of unadulterated black coffee.
So I add the milk, wait for it to settle a bit and just kind of…swish it around, much like a wine connoisseur does to impress himself at parities. There’s no getting an even blend this way, so I sip and swish and sip and swish and sip and swish and try not to get anything on the keyboard.
I mostly succeed.
Stephen doesn’t know about the shadow routine attached to our shared ritual.
But he does read my blog.