$1.75

an oh-so-trendy coffee shop near my office sells coffee so good i've claimed the beans have been roasted on the bottoms of beautiful sun-drenched Indonesian virgins. for $1.75, and possibly a plane ticket, you too can enjoy a small cup of dark roast nirvana. scalding. black. bitter. smooth. hints of an unrecognizable fruit add the slightest touch of sweetness, balancing the impenetrable darkness of the brew. a perfect cup. yet, each time i am ringed-up, ambient techno music beating in the background, I feel ripped-off. $1.75 is simply too much for a small cup of coffee, perfect may it be. it's outrageous and i should be outraged, yet i go back time and time again for the special caffeine buzz it induces to my system. if there's a long line and i'm late to work, i'll ride-by slowly, hoping for a miracle, that the line will disappear and there'll be time to grab a cup... an hour later my legs will begin moving involuntarily, mindlessly, towards the South End Buttery, possibly in the middle of a conference call, desperate for a perfect cup... besides my wallet being considerably lighter after months of enjoying such robust flavor, the receptacle in which this amazing brew is deposited for travel is flawed. with each sip, delicate at first, then more greedily as it cools, one small drop wil slowly fall onto my rarely ironed shirt - or jersey - or desk - or handlebars. frequently, i'll reach my index finger down to the dark drop, absorbing it onto my skin, then bring it to my lips. as the bottom of each cup appears, a spattering of grounds lies quietly and the same question is posed, should they be consumed along with the lonely last sip or wasted in the trash? today, the grounds were not wasted - and my stomach thanks me for it with quiet aching. coffee is good.