The espresso grinder screamed to life filling the basket with the sweet smelling aroma of Italian beans. The cheap plastic tamper pushed the grinds down with the perfect amount of pressure. For fuck sake that's heart and soul of espresso, the grind, the tamp, and an expensive espresso machine. A caffeine ballet. Perfezione
Thirty years of espresso making without a thought was the flag planted in the sand of each day. But on Sundays it was prologue. The day set aside to ignore and forget the Monday that was right there on the horizon shouting ‘red skies in the mornings workers take warnings’.
The celebration of Sunday was centered on a home cooked meal and wine. A table set in all its splendor beaconing the meal in soft whispers of ‘I’m ready’. He half smiled remembering this pebbled sized joy. Even a tiny pebble lodged a shoe makes one limp. The limp of loss, these many years later. Stung just the same. Hard to quantify stung. It just was. Maybe it was how long the hurt lasted is the measure of time.
Donna was a latte soul. There was the ritual perfected over many years. The stainless steel pitcher selected to hold the milk and steam it to fill Donna’s beloved oversized latte cup. The latte cup made one Christmas in a pottery pop up with some cave like drawing of Nina, her beloved Westie, and an angel. Glazed in blue.
Steaming milk echoed the high pitched whooshing and sloshing motion across the apartment. A soprano scream announcing it was Sunday morning in no uncertain terms. Not too much foam just hot enough. A slow perfectly executed pour into the cup so the creama rose to the top of the milk. Mark would carry the cup to the red chair where Donna and Nina sat. She’d would look up with a squint knowing what was coming.
“What?” Mark voiced in mock horror
Donna in an ever so slight tilt of the head, “And what did you create today?’
“Why are you always so skeptical?”
“Me? Never! What would make you say that?”
“Simple, you never recognized the images I make in the foam.”
“Okay”. “What did you ‘create’ today?” Donna said surrendering her vision to the cup.
Placing the aromatic cup just below her face and tipping it slightly. One hand holding the cup steady and the index finger on his other hand pointing to the foam.
“Look, You see it?” His finger slowly circles above the foam. “That’s a tree with the moon behind it.” smiling at his talent.
Adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose and biting her lower lip Donna looked closely at foam. She tilted her head slightly to the left in feigned thought.
“No, that’s milk, espresso, and someone who is brain dead. It’s not a tree nor the moon. Good try. You make shit up and try and sell it. Go away I'm not awake.”
All these years later when he thought about that, a small smile appeared. Such a little moment painted in meticulous watercolor brush stokes where the color did not obscure the 30 year old canvas. The majority of memories he tapped into evoked an audible ‘Donna’ as he walked the loft. He heard his voice. He always did. Did the neighbors hear him? Did they judge him? Feel sorry for him? Give a shit? His only thought at these thoughts was shrug. He vocalized his failures to keep her alive. He questioned if he ever did as much as he could have for her. His failings became his self blame.
Enough he said out loud to no-one while replaying Donna’s favorite line, “There’s a reason they call it history. It happened then”. Thinking it was then—wasn’t it? It is now and there’s a wheel barrow of plans facing him.
Then, filled the days. Then, defined the days. Then are the moments frozen in the emotional amber of grief. Tomorrow’s then’s are images seen through cataracts, cloudy at best. Donna’s not coming back. He found comfort knowing he could join her anytime he chose. Based on the letter in his hand which was the now it seemed sooner rather than later.