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He needed coffee and lots of it.
He woke early. Sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her sleep,
he wondered if the relationship would last. He had been in so many
before that didn’t. It was the first time, in the three months
they had been dating, that he slept over at her apartment.
That was a big step.
He always needed coffee first thing in the morning -- to get his
heart pounding -- his blood pumping -- to shake the cobwebs from his
head -- to get his karma in tune with the cosmos and his dogma in
touch with the world.
Coffee.
Caffeine.
Java.
Joe.
He had forsaken soda and milk and juice and water. Even booze. All
he liked to drink was coffee and the first one in the morning was
always the best -- the virgin cup.
He loved it. He needed it. He craved it. But not just any coffee.
Rich. Dark. Colombian -- heart-pounding -- eye-popping --
blood-pumping -- finger snapping -- toe-tapping --
it-gives-me-the-shakes coffee.
Steaming hot.
Black.
No sugar.
In the kitchen he found her coffee maker. He opened the cupboard
door over the coffee maker where he thought her coffee might be. It
was there.
A jar of Hazelnut.
Decaf.
Instant.
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Jack Conway's newest book of poetry, Life Sentences was
published in 2002. His work has appeared in a variety of magazines
and journals, including, Yankee and The Antioch Review.
He is a former professor at Boston University.
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