I put down my cup of coffee. I was frustrated. I don’t even drink coffee. I suppose though except for that particular day. I like the smell but care not for its taste. A touch too acrid.
It was our conversation rather than the beverage that lead to my displeased state of mind.
Coffee wouldn’t make me frustrated like that, shaky probably, but not frustrated.
We finished our passing back and forth of sentences, and I turned to the door.
A series of revelations poured over me like a rain of nails and glass.
To say to me what she had said would most certinaly have required;
That she had never read a single poem I wrote, never heard a single note or verse of any song I loved.
She hadn’t looked into any drawing I had rendered.
She hadn’t listened to anything I had said about who I am and what I mean.
It can be painful to learn the assumptions others have made of you.
That’s a realization that’s a lot more frustrating than any cup of anything. Save for a cup of angry fire ants, though that too would be more physical pain than frustration.
What is one to do?
Well I didn’t drink any more coffee, instead I listened to 100 verses of ragtime, and conjured up every imaginable bird under the sky.
Because, all joking aside, I don’t drink coffee, I draw birds.