My Cup of Morning

I pour the coffee beans into the grinder, individual beans clinking against the sides. Just like every morning. The scent hits my nostrils: pungent, thrumming, bold. It’s the smell of morning, at least to me. My brain slightly twitches, the tingle from my nose reaching my sluggish head.

Chugga chugga. The grinder crunches, whines, smashes. The smell becomes a little bit stronger, shooting into my nose in waves. I pour the grinds into the machine, and turn it on.
The coffee machine grumbles and gurgles, shooting hot water through the dark brown grinds. The whole room is now filled with an earthy, bright aroma, one that makes me want to sit down with a good book.
So, once the coffee is ready, I pour it in a mug and add some cream and sugar. I pick up a book and curl up on the couch, holding my steaming cup of morning.
All hell will break loose in about a half hour, but this is peace.
I plunge myself into the story. A hero, of course, fighting frighteningly colossal powers levied against him. A girl, of course, beautiful, blue eyed, madly in love with the hero and strongly committed to his cause. A wizened old man, guiding the hero and teaching him. An antagonist. Huge, demonic, powerful. Evil; blatantly disregarding any moral boundaries; preying on those unable to protect themselves. A world hanging on the edge of a knife.
My phone rings.

I fold the corner of the page and close the book.

The coffee is cold, and the smell is now mixed with roommates’ burnt toast, eggs, and various shower products as bodies dry from just having used them.

My ears are filled with shuffling chairs, grunting and chattering men, the girl above us who thinks she’s Demi Lovato, and one voice fretting over his charred piece of bread.

I hold the phone in my hand, frantically beeping and buzzing to get my attention. I sigh, and answer it. Let the day begin.