Staring into the black pool abyss my face is an image of distorted want feeling the warmth rising to my cheeks inhaling the odours, fruits from Africa.
Teasing steam rises from the cup the liquid too hot for my mouth I settle for content of inhalation humid vapours of the roasted bean.
Farmers of Burundi caring for plantation hands pick the red fruits for extraction the green bean from the pulp Hamburg bound to me to purchase.
Roasted to a brown, not too dark ground coarse for a plunger measured by spoon, water boiled too slow passing moments of reflection. Then, my first sip!
