I just met someone.
She is easily the best thing to happen to me this year. Maybe I paid for her at first, but many relationships have awkward beginnings. Her name is Mr. Coffee, and she was $40 at Best Buy. She’s sleek, black, and dripping wet all the time.
Mr. Coffee is a 12-cup programmable drip coffee maker, and I just want to quit all my jobs and get inappropriate with her while she percolates.
It’s like this: I’ve never owned a coffee maker before. I’d either drink coffee at the businesses and offices where I used to work or I’d buy it from a local coffee-hock such as this “Starbucks” around the way. This–I’ve discovered–has its advantages. When you buy coffee for $1.47 and must pay an additional 40something cents for a refill, it reminds you of how much coffee you are consuming and creates an upper limit to the amount you will drink.
My baby, though? She don’t stop.
I said to myself, I said, “Markley, you seem to enjoy a good cup of joe or two a day. Why not just buy a coffee maker and sit in the comfort of your own home while she makes those little burbly ticking noises as she brews?”
And I can hear her now in the other room–gurgling, crooning, singing that sweet sad song. I just made two cups for now, but I can go back for more. My sweet thing can always handle a little more.
The only problem with Mr. Coffee? She’s opened up the floodgates–her floodgates. Of coffee. She allows me to make infinity coffee. “No,” still means “no,” but she don’t even know the meaning of that word. She only knows, “Don’t stop,” and “Fill me up,” and “BlurbleBlurbleBlurble.”
She can leave me strung out, tweaking, but always wanting more.
She’s patient. She’s quiet. She’ll let me leave the coffee grinds in her all night and then throw ‘em out in the morning. She gets nasty, but all I gotta do is take out that removable filter basket and give her a little warm bath. Don’t even get me started on her dual water windows. I’ll fill those things up all the way to the twelve-cup mark–till she can’t even take it anymore–and then I’ll drink her down, cup by blessed cup, until I’m deep down in her gritty dregs, her sweet, nasty nectar black as hell, strong as death, sweet as love.
Naughty little coffee maker.