The Rapture

David likes his coffee in the morning, and he gets up, eager and groggy, to start it afresh.  The filtered water has been sitting in the jug overnight; he pours it into the reservoir behind the coffee-maker, gets the bag of grounds from the refrigerator, and puts five scoops of them into the filter, in the basket.  Then he turns on the little red light.  It's a machine he likes a lot, and when he broke the carafe, he disabled the anti-drip mechanism to accomodate the new carafe.  he tries to make up little errands to do that will keep him occupied until the drip cycle is over, but most days he just can't wait.  The countertop is often spattered by the time coffee is done.

It is quiet then, except for the sounds of the house and of his body.  He is alone, and yet I am with him to see all this, for you see:  I am David.  He never fills the coffee cup more than halfway.  He likes it hot.  He sits down in front of the computer and deletes the uninteresting mail.  He looks at the feeds and the boards, but he rarely offers anything up; he won't even answer emails at that hour.  Coffee first.

He takes a break and uses the running water for three purposes.  By then, he might be ready to write a little.  Periodically he has gone down and refreshed his cup, until the coffee is all gone.  And by then it is time to go out.  David picks up the paper from the end of the driveway and throws it in the back of the car.