On N Droppong By in the Middle of the Day: A Two-Fold Coffee Exegesis

She called and I scurried to order the kitchen but she got here before I had a chance to boil water or even excavate the French press from this morning's crust of cuarenteno. She handed me the Baume de Venise that was the solider and less befuddling reason for her visit, and, rather than begin with the peaches right there and then I put the bottle in the fridge for later. She did want coffee, but had only ten minutes which is not enough time for the boiling and French pressing, so we had clear, lukewarm water from identical glasses. We spoke over the stove. The peaches imperceptibly sank under their own weight. The clock ticked 600 times, and up she got, palmed her keys, and we chatted Saturday or Sunday for supper? and I walked her out to the steps and off she go. So yes, mouth-feel, and the whole-body involvement, the way it's not in your head, and the way it's a straight tentpole when socially you're blowing around all white and tent-like in the wind of not knowing for certain what to say or how to say it and you are so unmanned by the messiness of the kitchen that must be baring your privatest squalor.