…I picture it as a burnt
coffee smell. The grounds

smoldering in the pot, the
water evaporated and all

that’s left is the heat of the stove,
smoke, and the stink of

melting copper wire. It isn’t
an unpleasant smell, something

foreign and overpowering. As
I pad sockless across the cold

tile, I try remembering when
I put the coffee on? And I

wonder if maybe my wife has
decided to make herself a cup?

Which would be strange because
she usually just waits for me

to make it. Then I finally notice
there’s nothing burning in the

kitchen. There’s nothing but a
lightness, a dull ache in my

left arm, and a tingle in my belly.
There will be no noise, no

final words or pronouncements.
There will only be the smell

of coffee… 


Evening Soundtrack: The Blue Notebooks By Max Richter