You prepared coffee with
the precision of a chemist, and they likened your meticulous bean-grinding and milk-steaming to all the deliberate cup-turning and kettle-pouring of a Japanese tea ceremony (but your shaky hands, and the way in which you swallowed each sip with somber resistance, were more like that of a man who kept one bag always packed, waiting by the front door).
0 Comments
Your hand don't feel
the way mine do, or the way they used to. They feel grains of sand slipping through fed-up fists, and, in turn, they themselves feel like a stranger's - as foreign to me as washed up artefacts on the beach's rocky shore, but with twice as many uses. |
Archives
November 2019
|