I Reheated My Coffee Three Times

Dear Delyara, By the third time, it wasn’t really coffee anymore. It was a symbol. I made it. Forgot it. Remembered it. Heated it. Got interrupted. Heated it again. Answered something. Moved laundry. Signed a form. Heated it again. At some point I realized the whole thing had become less about drinking coffee and more about the impossibility of having one complete uninterrupted experience that belonged only to me. That’s what hit me. Not the coffee. The fragmentation. I drank it anyway. It tasted tired. That felt appropriate.