Rumchata

There’s cinnamon at the bottom.

It’s 11 am and I have yet to wash. My teeth have that gross, almost rice paper feeling to them and my hair is in need of moisturizing. It’s Sunday and I am trying to own my idleness.

I brew coffee that is made from grounds I left in the grinder from the previous day. The new coffee shop on my corner finally opened and with the promise of quickly prepared coffee and cold cream, I abandoned my inefficiently ground beans and walked over.

I recently spilled butter in this damn thing. My dog is adorable and fond of it. I move the round butter dish atop the coffee machine usually to keep her from eating it by the stick. One day I couldn't find the dish and simply sat the stick of butter on top of the small hinged door for the water reservoir.
And then turned the machine on.
After tasting hot, melted butter, one is just simply not the same. Unfortunately, the same thing rings true for my coffee machine. I can still see coagulated bits of butter in the water reservoir as I fill it up to “8.”
For 8 cups or 8 people? I imagine old Good House Keeping ads that feature new coffee makers that tell you just how much water you need for your well-dressed guests. Everyone is wearing slacks with creases down the front, sweaters, and faux pearls. All to drink coffee from your shitty machine.

I wish things were still that simple. I wish avocado green kitchens were still a thing. I wish that this rumchata in my fridge was still good.

“Best enjoyed 6 months prior to opening”

The bottle has a gold top and crusty, boozy white bits are still on the top. I pour some in with the vanilla creamer and hope for the best. It’s Sunday, after all. I deserve booze and a buzz before noon. I deserve a lot. I got this mug out of a box on the sidewalk. It says, “I am small and fierce but also fight me.”

Can bed bugs live on porcelain?

I sip anyway.

The liquor is sweet and the coffee is nearly white. I give myself the space to enjoy bad coffee and cream once in a while. I allow myself to hush the voice that croaks, “Hurry” without any destination or goal in mind and sink into my sofa.

It’s a hideous sofa.

It’s purple and deep and somehow a wing-back. I didn’ t think my home was official until there was someplace to sit. I still remember hearing it echo in the too-large U-haul as we hauled it from the Goodwill in the “nice” neighborhood. I bought a slipcover on Amazon and felt soothed. It’s a soft grey and I feel softer when I tuck in its ever sloppy ends.

I am beginning to expect that creamy alcohol does indeed have an expiration date. I ignored the “6 months” warning because I was full of so much more 6 months ago. My house was full of coworkers united in our complaints against customers. We tittered about those unfortunate enough to not be invited to sit on my couches and squirt whip cream stolen from our work fridge onto Irish coffee.

The bottle is gold and white and I think about how everything is usually packaged so well but still ends. My mother folds wrapping paper that probably costs 1$. I store gift bags away, careful not to wrinkle them.

I am so busy holding on to things with clear expiration dates, things that are meant to be enjoyed and eventually end. I am too nostalgic. I want to always bask in those moments, even after they sour and leave me with a headache.

. . .

“I think I’ll go out to the yard, pour myself a glass of scotch, and think of you.”

I desperately wish that this quote is from a woman. Men are always drinking and thinking. I wish that Sundays lasted for entire weeks. On one of those long Sundays, I imagine that I would burrow my toes into unmowed grass, not minding that it wrapped around them and hurt a bit, and solidify myself in the moment. I’d wear a white bikini and cat eyeglasses and have “appointments”, scotch in hand in a pretty little glass.

I refill my coffee and add a bit more. I allow myself the grace of doing nothing. To sink into the moment of pure idleness in a way that I usually cannot. Letting moments pass instead of lifelines that I cling at, nails digging into them.

I will throw the bottle away later.

Maybe.

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A lesbian who writes.

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Rainn

Rainn

A lesbian who writes.

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