Inhaling a deep breath, I savour every bit of caffeine-tainted air possible, its strong aftertaste clinging to my throat. Opposite me, in an old comfy chair that droops nearly to the floor, B cups her mug of hot chocolate and pouts. “I miss coffee,” she says, sipping from her cup and sliding it on to the table. “It smells so good.” I hesitate, holding my own mug inches from my lips, its taste practically on my tongue. “Should I get something else?” “No,” she sighs, settling back into her favourite chair. “There’s no reason for us both to suffer.” “Sure?” She nods. “Thank God,” I say, going past the point of no return and licking the stray coffee drops from my lips. Coffee’s caffeine no longer affects me, my unrequited love occurring at too young of an age. Where Joey dreamed of pubs and sneaking into bars, I longed for coffee shops and dark corners where I could write and draw. My mind couldn’t comprehend Dylan Thomas sat in a bar with his notebook before him.
