I am blowing off steam. Support it.
My Beloved rests soundly on my watch.
COVID restrictions are tough, especially in a hospital. The Thirteen-Year Veteran will not be able to see his mother in person for a while, but I will be able to take my daughter tomorrow.
My Beloved is making progress, but she did have a massive stroke, and is still in the ICU.
As I wait for a Computed Tomography medical scan, coffee sounds delicious.
I like my coffee dark, bitter, raging like Jeptha the Beast. The first objective is to get a cup.
I have seen them before.
You see, the cup says,
“this cup is compostable but compost facilities may not exist in your area.”
I would not soon forget such an ignorant, agenda-laden cup. You can compost nearly anywhere if it is your desire to do so.
From past experience, I determined they were from the first floor. I take the long treck from the ICU to the waiting room below.
For COVID concerns, or at least the outward appearance of them, the coffee maker, microwave, and phone charger are out of service.
I find the remnants of the coveted cups. This feels a little apocalyptic. I shared my methods and my supply will soon be diminished, requiring me to smuggle a watertight cylinder in next time.
Securing my compost cup, I proceed to the third floor.
The oily mixture falls angrily in the cup as if a kraken thrashed within. I listen closely and it threatens to eat my insides if I indulge.
I smile with delight as I look around. While there are no cups available, I see compost cups strewn about from the night before.
I had told a group of suffering stragglers about the process and the evidence of defiance remained in stir sticks and sugar packets on the tables. (Unable to photograph as people are there. It is a hospital.)
They too received free coffee. I feel like Johny Appleseed, a pioneer, or the founder of a movement.
I bring my lips to the coffee, its hatred spews venom and vehement contempt. It tries to negotiate, pleading for me to add cream and sugar for ease in going down to the pit. I refuse.
In retaliation, the coffee scalds my tongue and throat, attacking the walls of my stomach with vengeance. It has descended.
The coffee stands no chance. It has found its match.
I take my prize to the elevator and proceed to the fourth floor. Its many eyes stare into my soul, daring me to partake again. I oblige, repeating the process.
I am with my Beloved, coffee in hand.