The machine’s blades spin – cutting, slicing, and crushing the brown beans into dust.
An emaciated hand turns the lever in a slow, clockwise motion, filling the room with a shrill mechanical creaking.
That machine must be ancient, I think to myself. Maybe it’s an antique?
Only antiques ever creak that way.
My eyes gaze towards the arm to which the hand is attached to; I can see the aquamarine veins swell with the exercise.
Maybe it’s the hands and not the machine.
Maybe the hand is a part of the machine.
The machine stops.
The lid of the grinder opens; a seductive, dark smell of fresh coffee tingles my nostrils.
I can feel the caffeine already taking hold of my brain.
My eyes wander, I see a dust storm raging outside the window. A pale Sun hides behind a haze the color of coffee.
The door of the café suddenly opens, and a woman with hair as long as a cape enters.
She sits besides me and we see the hand scoop the coffee from the machine.
The woman is not wearing any clothes; her hair covers her body like a giant, lustrous cloak.
Her breath caresses my skin.
And I realize that I am naked too.
The differences are pretty apparent – between her tender curves and my hard musculature.
And yet, we aren’t different at all.
We both have a heart which beats faster every second, we both have lungs which breathe heavily with passion, we both have brains which are intoxicated with the caffeine which fills the air, and we both have eyes which twinkle with anticipation.
She’s not just a woman.
She is womanhood.
She is the mother, the wife, the whore, the virgin, the priestess.
But she is also the father, the husband, the protector, the provider, the priest.
She is manhood.
And yet, she is none.
The emaciated hand distracts me from her, keeping a mug on the table.
It is filled to the brim, the fumes of the coffee wafting up to my chin, leaving it hot and moist.
I feel the wet imprints of her luscious lips when I drink from the mug.
I feel the caffeine flowing in my blood, making it hotter.
Does it make her blood hot too?
The coffee flows deeper, penetrating my soul. Slowly, it surpasses even my soul; I feel it flowing into her.
I am her.
What is the difference between me and her?
What is the difference between a man and a woman?
Is it merely the genitals?
“Do you like pink?” I ask.
“No. Coffee is my favourite colour,” She says.
Now, when I come to think of it, coffee is my favourite colour too.
I feel it flowing again.
Something changes, and I am no longer just a man.
I am manhood.
I am the father, the husband, the protector, the provider, the priest.
But I am also the mother, the wife, the whore, the virgin, the priestess.
I am womanhood.
And yet I am none.
The difference does exist.
It exists only because it needs to exist.
It exists only because it needs to be undone – that is its true aim.
When a couple makes love, when they reach true orgasm, only the kernel is left, the difference disappears.
That is the awakening.
The kernel is the truth
The difference is just a lie that leads to the truth.
The coffee is finished.
I am spent.
The woman has disappeared. Maybe, into the coffee coloured dust storm.
I peer down at myself.
I have disappeared too.
In the end, there is only an empty mug on the table and a dark, seductive aroma of the coffee lingering in the air.