Con Affetto

You left me high and dry on a Sunday morning--the cruelest of cruel, knowing how much I savored our daily ritual. Sunday was always our favorite day, though, wasn't it? I'd linger a little longer in bed, drawing out the experience, sometimes sidling back to you a second time, the nectar of our earlier tryst still white on my lips; your hot body still moist with the alchemy of our special aromatic blend.

But on that fateful day you stood there in your red satin robe, flashing your left eye, silent and bereft of the steam that was the force behind our entire relationship. I did everything in my power to convince you to keep trying. I plied you with magic crystals that promised to once again propel the life-giving blood through your veins. I bathed you in soft, filtered water. I coaxed you gently with soft whispers and gentle pats on your firm bottom. When you refused my good-intentioned attempts to change your mind, I tried shaking you to your senses before turning my back and threatening to throw you on the floor.

Ah, but you knew it was all talk, didn't you? When I turned around, there you sat like a sad old man without his little blue pills looking almost as forlorn as me--your one prosthetic arm hanging like a broken antenna as you sighed one last time before tipping your black cap and leaving me to sob in the kitchen chair, parched and unsated.

Weeks dragged by. I felt the heaviness of your absence upon wakening every morning, the dull lag in my mid-afternoons lacking your timely libations.  In my frustration I tried to replace you with others but none of them were as good as you. The little Frenchie was intense, but I could see right through him, and quickly realized it as me doing all the work in our short relationship. I didn't bother to press for more. Instead I  stooped to a one-night stand with an ebony-skinned lover I picked up at Target, but he didn't perform nearly as good as he'd looked when flirting with me in the aisle between shiny blenders and the statuesque juicers. He was weak and shallow and, well,...not you.

In desperation, I called the hot line. A voice on the other end of the phone--his name was Colin--tried to persuade me to calm down. He assured me these things happen and that he'd try to help but I first had to accept the fact that sometimes when it's done it's done, used up, over. I didn't want to hear his negativity and clung instead to his promises of reuniting me with my passionate Italian. I followed every step of his instructions, lovingly touching you here and there and here again, but alas, nothing happened. Well, Colin said, there's one last thing we can try. Do you have a paper clip? I told him yes, I did indeed. I hesitated when he instructed me to shove the pointy metal into your flaccid orifice but at this point, what did we have to lose?

I'm sorry, I whispered, before closing my eyes, unable to bear the thought of certain damage to my one and only. You held still like the gentlemen that you always are and then, presto! --you came to life in my hand right there in front of Colin. In front of the cats lingering at me feet hoping for a bit of spilled milk. In front of God AKA Peet, the creator of our favorite dark elixir. I ran out the front door and into through the street, spilling the beans, "We're back together!" I shouted.  "My Baby Gaggia still loves me!"

I skipped back into the house and thanked Colon for his help before hanging up the phone. We consummated our re-commitment right there in the kitchen, you and I, and it was as good as ever--even better, I might go so far as to say, after having measured poor imitations against the real thing. Grinding, steaming, foaming, we  filled the house with the aromatic joy of two souls merging to create one perfect blend of Sumatra and Soy, light and dark, crema and cup.

I kissed the top of your head before heading back to bed to nurse the last few sips of our liquid love, feel it surge through my veins as my heart danced a little faster, my eyes opened a little wider, and my words came a little easier to uninspired fingers. I love you, Baby. Always will.

Photo Credit: Pacific Bay Coffee