National Coffee Day [Flash Fiction]

Every day is coffee day for me. Just be around when I realize I have forgotten to get coffee the day before. I love my espresso machine.

Even though the first espresso machine in the world was in Naples Italy, I do not feel any special affinity for espresso coffee because my father’s mother’s family is from Naples, which might mean somewhere along the Amalfi Coast in close or remote proximity to Naples–I do not know exactly, but then I feel this more than I know this, if you understand what I am saying, you know what I mean?

I cannot, though, drink weak American coffee, or anything like medium roast or blonde roast as some say–whatever that is supposed to mean–dish water. I do not know why anyone does. I should understand that there are specific ways a person can know who is suited for him—is it possible to love a person who likes blonde roast coffee, some weak shit that’s like coffee passed through the same grinds several times? No, it is not; no more than it is possible for me to be with a woman who puts ice cubes in good red wine, like a good bottle of Gigondas. Anyone who puts ice cubes in a glass of Gigondas should be beaten with a stick. I mean, do you eat with your feet; do you stick your thumbs up your ass before you take hold of a sandwich? Do you have sex with the dead or with animals? These are the same as putting an ice cube in a glass of Gigondas, and the fact that anyone else reading does not understand this points to the decline in civilization.


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