What the Mug Said Without the Sugar

October second. The experiment started because I ran out of oat milk on a Tuesday and instead of going out I just, didn't. Poured the coffee into the mug, stood at the counter, and drank it plain. And I didn't hate it, which is not the same as liking it, and that distinction has been living in my head ever since.

So this morning I tried it again, deliberately. No milk, no sweetener, nothing to negotiate with. I stood at the counter with both hands around the mug like I was waiting for it to confess something. I had a notebook open, not because I intended to take notes, but because I had been writing before the kettle boiled and the notebook was already there. I wrote a few things down anyway. Results of the experiment: I do not dislike black coffee. I do not particularly like it. What I like, I think, is the version of the morning that contains it, the quiet, the standing still, the not-having-decided-anything-yet quality of that particular twenty minutes. The coffee might just be the excuse.

the spoon stayed there the whole time. unused.

The spoon sat on the counter the whole time, unused. I noticed that specifically. There was something slightly satisfying about the spoon being there and not being needed. The botanical bundle is still on the kitchen table beside the cord. Gerald has a new leaf coming in, I can see it from where I was standing. October is doing something specific to the morning light in here and I haven't written about it yet, but it's the kind of light that makes you want to take stock of things. Maybe that's what the coffee experiment actually was.

the windowsill had no opinion, which was helpful

The conclusion, if there is one: I have been adding things to my coffee for eighteen years and I could probably stop, but I probably won't, because the oat milk is back in the fridge and the morning already has enough open questions. The spoon is back in the drawer. That part, at least, is settled.