Magical Coffee Machine

I called it, “The Magical Coffee Machine”.

I’m a drip coffee woman myself, despite a tenure working at a famous luxury culinary store (and now its competitor) and fiddling with the upper echelon of high-end coffee machines, I was still fascinated by the one they had at the clinic.

Any time of day, I could simply press a button and a flat white would appear before me. Transcendental caffeination.

It was especially nice after those vivid and unnerving sleep medicine dreams at the hands of Trazodone. I could toss and turn in the early morning hours in an alternate, Lynchian reality of my subconscious and like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, I could wake up to discover it was all a dream and a cup of coffee would materialize before me just like that.

I found myself missing that Magical Nespresso Machine this morning when I stirred awake. I had been living in a ramshackle place, hiding behind quilts while violence happened, I felt unsafe and I called my father so much but to no avail, my voice became hoarse. I abandoned my phone chargers and laptop charger.

My mother, my Guardian Angel, ended up having to send me a message via airplane writing.

“It’s just a dream,” she wrote in the clouds, “wake up!”

I stirred awake restlessly. Only it’s been how many years of waking up in a bed I don’t know anymore and home feeling like a foreign concept that the only lifeboat I’ve found is a cup of coffee and a good book. And yes of course, a trusty cigarette.

I wonder if David Lynch ever gets the Morse Code I tap over my heart when I listen to Roy Orbison, it’s quite morose.