Mmm: First cup of coffee of the day. Mmm-hmm. Oh yeah.
Achy, I stumble across the apartment this morning while listening to the gargling of my coffee drip. I cannot wait.
My freelance gig of last night is sitting in my joints and in the arches of my feet: So tired! The neck is stiff, causing me a mellow headache. Still, the pain is no stronger than the gratitude for finally manufacturing an income that doesn’t violate, compete with, or drain my work. No longer do I report to anyone else but myself. And others that hire me for my expertise treat me with dignity and a slight amusement that covers up their utter adoration of my company. I stretch the neck, both ways. Something snaps on the left side.
Or should I blame the 7-mile dash across the beach yesterday, for feeling so roughed up? Barefoot and barely dressed, I squeezed in between the beautiful bodies of strutting brown girls in yesterday’s sun, and I kept on running. There is an esteem in me these day that other women pick-up on: Not only do they smile at me (for they have always done that) — they grin, openly, in recognition or admiration — while they size me up discretely, the way that only women can do. I grin right back at them, and I find myself picking up speed.
Oh, if I could, I would kiss every one of them on their shiny, pink-bow lips that must taste like purple grapes or black cherries; drinking them up, like that first cup of coffee of the day!
Mmm. Life. Oh yeah.
The drip has committed its last exhales, always so a-rhythmical. But only after it does half a dozen of spit takes do I slowly make it over to the machine. Ouch, ouch: The arches of my feet are killing me! The cold of the kitchen tiles feels soothing though.
I pour the first cup, watch its surface covered with patches of broken oily film; and at first, I am tempted to lap them up with my tongue. Instead, I stare at them, like an old Turkish wise woman, reading coffee grounds for signs of my own destiny. But I cannot see the bottom of the cup, so my story gets to keep its mystery. All the better that way.
The hot liquid is somehow of perfect temperature this morning, and it goes down so easily; so smoothly. Its acidity hangs in the back of my teeth with an aftertaste that makes me want to drink up more. So much more! To drink it up, to lap it up — all of it, with gratitude! — for having been given another day, another go at a dream. Another chance at some good living: Mmm. Life! Calmly, the patches of yesterday’s thoughts about today’s commitments start coming up to the surface — and I cannot wait to begin!
I pour the second cup and make my way over to the desk. The morning outside is foggy. I catch myself thinking of San Francisco. Oh yeah: The possibilities.
My dreams loom in the back of my consciousness, as if ripening until I am ready to gather them into the bottom of my skirt and to take a bite. There have been so many of them: These dreams of mine. And there have been so many loves. And each one, I don’t delay for long — but for long enough to gather the courage, the necessary readiness and the strength; the agility, the open-mindedness — before I begin their pursuit.
But what was it — that lullabied me to sleep last night? I do remember venting to myself, while fighting the beginnings of this mellow headache. The patches of yesternight’s thoughts slowly come up to the surface; and the fragments of their through-lines remind me of feeling agitated and strangely inspired. (Mmm: Life.)
Monogamy! Bingo. That’s it.
I was thinking about monogamy last night. Achy, I paced across the apartment, at midnight; defining something that I’ve never had a problem trying on, with each of my loves. (And there have been so many of them: My loves. Mmm.) But then again, I’ve never had the audacity to deny myself — or my partner — the variety, in life. I am not the one to confine my lover to limitations of a single woman: me. Because I myself know how much beauty, how much possibility there is to lap up; to drink up; to chug it down — like the first cup of coffee of the day.
But of course, each coupling of lovers must define it for themselves. And it’s a lengthy process of figuring out how each partner measures up against the other, with his or her beliefs, passions and hungers. And it’s not an easy talk of comparing each other’s needs and opinions — on monogamy; but such talks must happen continuously, as the relationship grows and changes, morphing into more and more specificity. These talks: They must happen — absolutely! — because only in mutual honesty, does a coupling of lovers find the dignity and the esteem that comes from navigating one’s life well.
Yeah! Honesty! That is — the saving grace, in love. I am addicted to it, and my girlfriends sometimes find it tragic. And they find it odd that I allow my lovers the freedom of pursuing their hungers — as long as I am made privy to those pursuits before they happen. It’s a health thing, at first, of course! A physical safety thing. I owe that to my lovers — and they owe that to me. And then, there is the health of one’s consciousness whose only route of navigation — is honesty.
Oh yeah! Life.