Cappucino

The sensation of his tiny childhood fingers clinging onto a smooth porcelain handle filled his being. He had, in his left hand, a typical white porcelain coffee cup. The fiery warm glow of the coffee shop’s lanterns reflected off the sides, creating small abstract shapes in red orange on areas of the cup facing the light. Along the rim, there was a tiny divot, a single scratch, in the color of a rusty brown. Mortar always drank on the side of the rim opposite the divot, for he preferred the smooth, frictionless porcelain on his lips. His chest burned and he had needle-sharp, knife-stabbing, drilling pains in his head every time his pupils stared at that divot. Gasping for breath, and feeling the pressure in his temples, he placed his right ring finger over the divot. Tilting the cup forward, and slowly placing the rim on his lips, he felt the shifting weight of the steaming hot cappuccino go from the bottom of the cup to the top. A whiff of scent invaded both his nostrils and his open mouth. Hot liquid made contact with his tongue as his taste buds lit up, filling his brain with the taste and texture of that perfect cup of cappuccino, though it was flaming hot and he felt as if his taste buds may not function for a while after being burned. As the liquid flowed down with gravity to his starving stomach, he had the urge that his mind was lighting up as bright as the sun on a summer day in a golden meadow. Urges to laugh were too much, and he giggled like a little child, a child with all their needs met and no worries at all to be had. A child in the present moment, all senses in the now.