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These short stories – some would refer to them as “flash fiction” – with the collective title “Coffee Trilogy”, are authored by Igor da Silva Livramento, friend and fellow writer, academic, and creative-writing advisor. He’s also a composer, music theorist, and producer. You can find him on LinkedIn, and also take a look at his blog and his page on Bandcamp.

Oh, and if you’re looking for my own coffee musings, well, you know what to do.

Ⅰ

We danced, happy; ’twas night. Our socks against the cold wooden floor.

She held me by the shoulders when I looked away, trying to figure out the song’s title. I smiled as I met hers on my way back.

Time did not exist. Neither did the world. Only tenderness kept us there.

I recall some of it: a syncopated piano, no title comes to mind. Lyrics? I’m not sure if happy or sad.

In the microwave, far from us, but close enough to hum all the way through, our mugs with milk for latte.

Ⅱ

Coffee is a way, a way back home. By the smell you can tell if you are coming back or not. It’s a way of feeling and being at home. The traveler recognizes the way by the smell and the bitterness in the mouth: acidity decreases as home nears.

But you! You will know if she will dance at night, if he will embrace her on the way out, if their gazes will be tender, if their hands will be warm, if the air will be light, if there will be rain at dawn, if blood will be firm.

Coffee has now become geography, a place, a way out. One knows where one goes by the taste: the mother’s left behind, the friends’ memorized, grandmother’s became dust in the wind.

But you! You will know that it is not a concept, not even an absolute, but something special. And you will know this as you drink from the smooth white cup, leafing through the descriptions of exceptional aromas and flavours of never-inhabited lands.

I know coffee. I know my coffee… But I live in exile.

Ⅲ

She walked into her mom’s house as one does that of a stranger: “Five years ago, wasn’t it?” – she hesitated. The mother replied: “Yes, five years ago.” – she longed while filling the kettle with water. She wanted to dispel all doubt: “Did you love him?” – reticent, fearful, going too deep too fast. Her strange voice became familiar: “Just because I live on my own since he left you doubt me? I still make breakfast for two! Would you be so kind?” – An aging smile joined young tears in a hug; two honeyed voices sweetened the coffee.