How do you like your coffee?
“How do you like your coffee, Ma’am?”
“Umm I don’t know.” I replied. I was ashamed with my reply.
The young dashing guy in front of me looked perplexed. I should add here that my younger sister found him to be quite ordinary and I was made to be a butt of a lot of jokes because she finally found living proof of the idiom “blinded by love”. I would feign ignorance but actually would get quite annoyed at those jokes. Nobody could have the audacity to laugh at my love. Love? I had just met this guy a week ago and I don’t even know if we have any future together.
Eyeing the look on his face, I hardly doubt if we do have one, future I mean. I found his expression quite insulting. There is nothing wrong in admitting to not have a knowledge regarding any subject, even if it’s coffee. I tell him that, ready to walk out of the coffee shop right then and never looking back. But he immediately explained why he was confused and his argument was so convincing that I had to stay.
“I was perplexed looking at your face awash with shame. Till this date, I don’t know how I like my coffee either but I enjoy trying different variants of it.”
He went on to explain how not knowing actually helped him discover and savor so many more flavors. I was transfixed when he was so descript about every process that a supposedly small coffee bean goes through. Different regions, different processes, different combinations of milk and sugar, sometimes just neat. I was so impressed with his knowledge that I almost felt like he was lying to me when he said he doesn’t know how he likes his coffee. How could this be? Someone who has surely travelled so much and savored so many different kinds of coffee would definitely have his top picks.
After so many years, I now know that most of his knowledge was through books. Oh god, his books! Books and coffee were a deadly combination for my husband. Yes, I ended up marrying that dashing guy and in the forty years of our marriage I can’t remember how many times coffee would have surfaced in our conversations.
Oh how I wish I could turn back time and transport myself into the library where he would spend considerable amount of time. We would be reading books and drinking coffee and obviously debating over some topic. Sitting in the hospital corridor I am surprised at how my memory went back to our first coffee adventure. Clearly this man and I share much grander memories. Whether it was the birth of our children or our honeymoon to Paris but the mind wanders where it wants to wander I guess.
A smile flashes in my face. Last two years have been difficult with my husband suffering from amnesia. Doctors say he hardly remembers anything, though I vehemently refuse it. Well if he can’t, then I shall remember everything with double the fervor I say. With his health deteriorating, his memories are all I am left with.
Amidst this cloud of thoughts, a hospital attendant approaches me and asks me to step into my husband’s room for one last time. It is time, the doctor said. My life for the last forty years is about to change but I am grateful for every minute of it. I don’t want to be selfish and want his suffering to end. If only, he could recognize me once for the last time. Slowly but steadily I enter his room and look at him smilingly.
“How do you like your coffee, Ma’am?” He says with a lot of struggle before his heart collapsed.
I knew. He knew. I still don’t know.
