coffee

There is such a thing as a good coffee story. There’s the one about my dad, who is the ultimate coffee connoisseur with his gourmet roasted coffee. Or the story my mom likes to tell about when she was a child, and she knew *one* family with an espresso machine. I personally like my tale of downing a tall black coffee in 10 minutes and being unable to stop moving afterwards. Sometimes these aren’t so much stories as juicy rumors. Like the one about the coworker whose coffee cup never gets washed. Can I just say—GROSS!

I clung to my clean coffee cup righteousness façade as though I would always keep my cup in the best of conditions. I say clung, because my claim on coffee cup purity is now a thing of the past. As I sit at my desk, I’m looking down into my coffee cup, which isn’t particularly dirty, but is graced by a dark, brown swirled film of coffee remains (Folger’s, Coffeemate creamer, and Equal sugar). The red straw I stirred that coffee with three (it could be five days, I couldn’t say) days ago, is actually stuck to the bottom of my cup.

This particular coffee cup has the “love verse” from Corinthians printed on it, and I’m just thankful it doesn’t say love is not lazy. The only problem with my work location is the distance from my desk to the mini kitchen. Sometimes it takes a lot of nerve to walk a dirty cup across the hall. I wouldn’t want anyone to actually find out what a loaf I am. Since I’m not actually so slothful that I would pour fresh coffee on icky sticky coffee goo, I’ll probably have to give up and wash my cup tomorrow when I want more coffee. Or, I’ll just bring in another cup.