You never could make good coffee, sweetheart. Early on, we decided I would make my own coffee every morning, even though you wanted to make it for me.
“It’s not like I’m trying to use one of those coffee pots on a campfire,” you said. “It is just a machine. It shouldn’t be this hard!”
“I know, honey,” I replied, trying to distract you with kisses. “It’s okay.” I tongued your lips, and you pulled back.
“But I did it the way you said.”
No one will ever understand what you did to the coffee. I knew you didn’t deliberately mess it up, but it either came out too weak or too strong – and I used the same coffeemaker. The same coffee pods. The same mugs. Your coffee-making fails were one of those cute, quirky things about you that made me love you a little bit more. I laughed and said we had a mixed marriage. I drank coffee. You drank tea. I didn’t make your tea – vaguely I knew it involved strings and little packets and a tea water kettle-thing – and you didn’t make my coffee. It was a perfect system.