Bittersweet

Black. No sugar. Just straight.

That was how Damian liked his coffee. Every morning without fail, he would wake up at seven on the dot, dress quickly and quietly so as not to wake me, and go downstairs to make his usual cup of coffee before leaving for work.

I'd later wake up sometime around eight and there would always be a fresh, warm pot waiting for me. He would set the timer so it would boil and be ready before I woke each morning. That was early on in the relationship when we'd moved in together.

Things took a quick turn not too long after.

There would be no fresh pot waiting for me any more. I'd find the coffee pot in the sink, the last few dregs already turning into a horrible brown sludge that would leave me scrubbing the pot extra hard before I could use it again.

There was no real explanation, it just happened. Looking back on our relationship now, it's much easier to see that that one gesture signalled the beginning of the end for us. You can't always prepare for things like this to happen, which is why it's usually such a shock when it does.

But life goes on, even after Damian.

I stood at the kitchen counter, running my fingers over the smooth handle of the coffee pot as I waited for it to brew. We'd received it as a house-warming gift from my parents after we first bought the place we used to be able to call our home. Though even after Damian moved out he didn't take many things, just said that he wanted to make the break-up move along as quickly and smoothly as possible.

That was so like him. So like Damian. Always wanting to keep things - even his relationship, apparently - strictly business-like.

Now that he’s left me, all I have to remind me of him is this damn coffee pot.

Regular. One sugar. And a dash of milk.

That’s how I like my coffee: bittersweet.