Guy who has spent thousands of dollars on espresso equipment – he's got a Flair Pro, a Niche, fancy needle distribution tools, fancy one-piece machined steel portafilter, fancy tamper, etc etc etc. Then he asks you if you want an espresso and when you say yes he proceeds to pull a Nespresso pod out of a drawer, tear it open with his teeth, and pour the grounds into the portafilter.
Person who has spent $100 on a manual espresso machine and modded it — decent no-brand tamper, miscellaneous tools to help punch up the cheapest espresso maker on the market. Then they ask you if you want an espresso and when you say yes they pour locally roasted beans into a tiny hand grinder and stare you in the eye for the 6 minutes it takes them to grind the beans. You want to break away from their gaze but eventually you feels soothed, hypnotized; drawn in by the whir and crackle of beans and burrs, the subtle scent of coffee on the air, by their eyes. They pour the fine grounds into the portafilter, distribute and level the grounds, and give it a firm tamp.
They ask if you like your espresso sweetened, and when you say yes, they grab two cubes of raw sugar, carefully break the cubes between their fingers and sprinkle it on top before leveling and tamping the sugar atop the compacted espresso grounds. They add a thin paper filter to the top and slot the portafilter into the unassuming machine, wait for the light to turn green, and draw a double shot. They watch, eagle-eyed until the exact moment the extraction is done, turn the machine off, and wait for the last few drips to drop. You accept the round, warm, white mug—no need for a saucer—and they watch your face intently as you take a sip.
The espresso is the perfect temperature; if it was any hotter your mouth would be scorched. The sugar renders the coffee into something velvety, unexpectedly luxurious. You are completely absorbed by the flavor: what does it taste like? Your mind races as you try to define it but no elevator pitch list of fruit or nut or essence printed on a cutesy bag of beans can encapsulate what this is. As it coats your tongue your taste buds jolt awake as if they've been hibernating for years. Your knees weaken and you clutch the cup; you cannot remove it from your lips, so you continue to pour it, still steaming, through your lips, a little at a time. You dare not drink too quickly. You dare not allow it to cool. You are compelled to appreciate each and every micrometer. Unpack the essence of every atom.
You reach the end (you fear it is too soon) and as the last drop seeps into your tongue, your head falls back and you stare at the ceiling, afraid to meet their eyes again. A thread inside your chest, wound like butcher's twine around your heart, snaps—you can hear it—like a guitar string wound too tight. You cannot hold it in any longer. Your lungs heave out a sudden gust. It is not a loud sob, or a wail, but a relinquishing of control. An abandonment of facade. You have tears in your eyes but you do not cry. You do not know how much time passes before the trance fades, but when you finally lower your gaze, they are standing there, quietly grinding more beans, a wide, thin smile cut across their face.
"Again." You say, voice louder and clearer than you'd intended.
"Again. Again."
They look at you and smile.
"Again." They repeat.
"Again." You reply.
Your voices fill the room, back and forth, matching the rhythm of the coffee as it's ground. A gear shifts inside you, you're no longer speaking, but crowing; you're both crowing, howling. There is no room, no ceiling, only a dark sky and piercing stars.
You remember yourself for a flash, and between your ululations, you search for their face, you spin, trying to catch up with them, always just beyond you, just outside your vision. Ephemeral, glowing. You spin faster and faster, until you catch a glimpse of something you cannot understand. Eyes and unexpected protrusions of white-hot flesh.
And then the cup, the one you forgot you were holding, crashes to the ground and shatters. It breaks cleanly, as if it had always contained these fault lines. The world ceases its spinning beneath your feet and you fall to the ground. An immense sadness fills you, as if all the life has been spun out from you, your mad dance a centrifugal machine.
A Hand reaches out to you but you do not take it.
They crouch down, silver steel grinder glinting in their hand.
"Are you ok?" they ask.
You remain silent.
"It's ok if you don't want an espresso, I've got tea or, I think some lemonade—"
You interrupt them, "I already had one."
Their head tilts to the side.
"No... I—I haven't even ground the beans—"
"I had one." You say, trembling.
"Are... Are you sure you don't need anything? Is your blood sugar lo—"
You scramble to your feet and head to the door. Sweat sweeps across your whole body, chilling you. Your clammy hands slide across the rails and you stumble down the stairs, flight after flight. Outside, there are no stars, it is the brightest, hottest time of day. You stare up and howl:
"Again! Again!"
You begin to spin. You are in the middle of the street, you do not hear the cars honking as they nudge around you. The sun burns white spots into your eyes until you cannot see.
"Again!" You sob, your face a swollen, ugly mess.
Your words shift again into howls and crowing. Spinning, crowing, weeping, smiling.
And you see them. You see their smile split across the neon glow of the sun.
"Again," they say.
You feel a hot breeze blow across you, and you are gone.