Coffee

Years ago, I was at an accidental house party at a friend’s apartment. It started as a Friday happy hour after work that morphed into Sunday brunch.

There were five or six of us in attendance.  We were all young bucks, clever and witty, ambitious, and at the time those qualities were sufficient.

Someone (not me) was pouring coffee for everyone.  “How do all you like your coffee?” he called out from the kitchen. It was a small apartment on Capitol Hill, so the rest of us were all spread out on couches and futons all over my friend’s living room, and no one had to yell, which was convenient, because none of us was feeling quite up to par.

“Just cream.” “Black.” “Plenty of sugar.”

“I like my coffee like I like my women,” said the wittiest of us. The game was to guess.

“Black and hot?” was one guess.

“Blonde and sweet?” was another.

I said, “Straight?”

The joke came up again this past weekend when drinks after dinner morphed (not unexpectedly) into good friends crashing on our living room couches.

Some things never change.

Life is good.