Becky Robison

There’s something menstrual about the smell of coffee, thick and bitter as the beans are ground and brewed to liquid. I don’t drink coffee—only a splash when it’s drowned in something sweet. But I miss the smell of it. I miss the churn of machines and the hiss of steam, the clink of glasses, the clatter of china on the bar, the bird calls of baristas, mocha-for-Ted, Americano-for-Rachel, the soft strum of something acoustic, all while I try not to eavesdrop on first dates, job interviews, language lessons, it’s dò svidànya, DÀNya, DÀNya, all while I try to focus on my own words, squeeze stories from within until they bleed from my pen onto paper.