Cold and bitter

He put down his favourite mug and headed to the gas stove. By now, the water would be hot enough to bring out the aroma in those freshly ground beans, yet not too hot, as he didn't want to alter their taste in any way.

A heavenly smell filled the room as he poured the boiling water over the fine, brown powder. It was all there, in that perfume: the heat of the blazing, Argentinian sun that once bathed the coffee trees, the soft splash of the rain drops, even the caring touch of the rough hands that picked the beans when they were ripe.

It wasn't just a drink, or a boost of energy, for him, coffee was so much more. A cup of sweet, black coffee offered him the perfect get-away from all the problems of the surrounding world, it allowed him to dream and to glance through a myriad of lives, of existences that he could have lived. His daily cup of coffee was the thing that kept him alive and sane, even in the toughest moments.

He didn't have any friends, he didn't need someone to talk to, as long as he could indulge in his habit. Indeed, sometimes the silence and the loneliness were unbearable, but he had grown used to them. In those blissful moments, time seemed to stop its flow. But today wasn't one of those days, the coffee didn't taste right, and when he took another sip, he discovered in horror that it was cold and bitter. And then he realised... He too was just like his coffee... cold and bitter, old and alone.