Image courtesy of the Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec Foundation
Painting entitled: Coffee Pot
Shared under the Creative Commons attribution
[Coffee Urn - flash story]
Coffee. Warm, wonderful, life-giving coffee.
The silver urn bathed in the late morning sun, alone on the banquet table, steam curling from the lip. The steam barely visible to my unfocused eyes but glorious all the same.
Hot caffeine. The motion of my life's blood. The function of my synapses.
Throbbing, my head ravaged me for last night. My tongue ached for the Columbia Black to spill over the cotton-parched muscle, burning away ... burning away everything. If only there was a mug.
If only I could move my arms.
I twisted my shoulders to see how tight the bindings were.
My dry tongue pressed against whatever was stuck in my mouth preventing me from screaming, adhering to the terrycloth fiber. Blood and sweat-sock duked it out for control of my taste buds. I think the blood is mine; at least one tooth is loose. So much for the extensive orthodontic work my parents paid for during my teenage years.
Bile rose from the flavors but I manage to dry swallow it back down.
Did they, whoever they were, leave the urn as torture? For torture it was to have coffee so close and so far.
(words 196 - first published 3/27/2016)