Coffee Tales

The Armor-less Soldier

She grabbed some beans and plunged them in a kettle on the stove. As the steam reached her nose, she, once again, felt smitten by a familiar smell. And it was not coffee’s.

It was his.

She smiled and wondered, if it was coffee that made her fall in love with him, or him making her love coffee. Her thoughts were taken over by rain drops hitting her room’s window.

“Perfect timing!” she whispered and walked up to place her chair close to the French window that imported her backyard flowers inside.

Pot whistled her. Cappuccino was ready, and with that everything, from dishes to clothes to furniture, got soaked in his smell.

She settled in her chair with a steaming big mug and her oldest favorite couple, a book and a round cushion. Her satin night suit, her coffee mug, the rain drops in background and a book in her hand. Heaven couldn’t be described better.

But something was still missing.

Finished drinking, she placed the mug on the table beside her and buried her face deep in the book. Word by word, page by page, she kept on gnawing the leaves for the seventh time – “love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

An hour later.

Rain was no longer tracing her window. It decided to settle for its edge instead, though coffee was still hovering in the air. But the girl in the satin night suit was in deep slumber.

Just then, a pair of lips sipped the last drops of coffee from her mug. The lips, then landed on the side of her neck and left her smiling. Another pair of hands slid over her body towards her legs lifting her up.

She was now awake, but did not open her eyes. Gently, she placed her hands over his and turned her face to the right. It was him. The missing piece of the scene. She kissed his cheek and looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time.

“Hi..”

“Hi..” He replied with an angelic smile.

“I see what you have been up to.”

“Oh! And I can see what you ARE up to.”

Her wink was enough to guide him that she wanted yet another kiss. Being a soldier, he was used to orders.

He let her down carefully resting her toes on his feet, but it was she who pulled him closer and kissed him deep. Like they did on their first date in the back alley of a cafe, like they did every time he visited her.

At that moment, her heaven perfected. All by itself.

A soldier’s wife is used to such heavenly stolen moments, anew and still able to bind all that’s past together. This soldier-wife too was.

If it was an emergency on borders, it was no less a battle indoors,

fought every day every night, by an armor-less soldier.

Ever since he passed away, in the line of duty,

she’s been bringing him back to life, every day of every monsoon,

with a little help from coffee.