Good coffee (something I found in a journal)

I always wondered what the barrel of a gun would feel like against my temple; cold maybe? Knowing you’re standing on the edge, like cliff diving into a bottomless ocean of the unknown. Love to cliff dive, but the feeling just before you jump was the addiction.

So there I was, sitting in the galley of my 35ft Hunter sailboat at six A.M. in nothing but my boxers, sipping my cup of joe with the smell of roasted beans and saltwater in the thick-aired teak cabin–with a gun to my head—and I was wrong. It was too damn early for this, and the steel wasn’t cold at all, matter of fact it was warm, dull, not the least bit exciting. Inconvenient. But I could cross another curiosity off my list; I had to thank him for that. I took a sip off my steaming cup.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” the tremor-deep voice of a distraught man said over my shoulder, while he held the shaking barrel to my temple.

I wondered about the long legs lying in the forward bunk, pictured her sleeping and hoped she would stay that way. I could work this out on my own. I was pondering breakfast for her, breakfast in bunk no less. I would fry up some eggs, slice up an orange, make some Italian toast with cream cheese, and pour a fresh cup of coffee for her. Her name was Celeste and I could see myself settling down with her. We’d known each other for near two months now, and she was tugging at my adventurous heart. I was about to go grab her some flowers to go with her breakfast and this inconvenient circumstance wasn’t helping my morning plans.

“Well?” the man said. I almost forgot he was there as I contemplated breakfast. And strawberries, there were still a few left over from the bubbly last night.

I took another sip; the cup was cooling down enough to drink now. “Would you like a cup?” I said.

“What?” he snapped out, the barrel of the gun drooping down to my cheek. Must have been heavy in his hand.

I didn’t like repeating myself, but I’d let it slide this time. Like I said, it was six in the morning. “A cup of coffee, you wanna sit down and tell me what’s on your mind.”

“This is loaded, you know?”

“Yeh, feels like a nice one too, ever fired it?”

“Not yet,” he growled.

“Yeah, you’re not about to either, so you might as well take a seat and enjoy a nice cup with me. Imported dark beans, you wouldn’t wanna pass on that, and you wouldn’t have a mess to clean up.”

I could tell he was beginning to understand, and that was a good thing, ‘cause I really needed to use the head. He finally let the gun down.

I stared ahead, took another sip. Good coffee.

McCallisterone

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