Morning People

My one-cup drip coffee maker has always seemed sinister to me since the first day I used it — which was Christmas 2008, gift from ailing aunt to sleepy mother, inherited by college kid daughter with a slight temper, who is definitely not a morning person, always hunched over the slick black machine, pretending to be equally volatile, grumbling and burbling clear water drop by hot drop into mud-brown coffee, the water welling up in the reusable filter and a film of miniscule bubbles forming on its surface, close to the sides of the hollow where the coffee grounds congregate once all the water’s dripped on out into the porcelain coffee cup that sits like the one tooth in the maw of that imp of a machine — so when I picked up the brimming cup this morning to hurl it at the floor beside my sister’s bare feet, it all made perfect sense.

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