The Coffee Bean Limit

“Il n’y a pas d’amour, il n’y a que des preuves d’amour^*.” – Jean Cocteau

The first thing you need to know is that he doesn’t drink coffee. In fact, he secretly (or not so secretly, depending on his mood) considers my dependence upon the substance a sign of moral weakness.

So I don’t know his precise motivations for making my coffee almost every morning. It may contain an element of pity. He may do it because it is good to have a functional vertical partner for parenting purposes. He may do it to hear the sigh I make when the first sip passes my lips. And he may just do it to avoid watching the pathetic bootstrap process in which I stand in front of the stove, all implements immediately to hand, and attempt to make my coffee without first having had a cup. All I know is that most days he arrives in the bedroom, coffee in hand, milk already added.

“Proof of love?” He offers me the mug.

A couple of days ago, though, he came down to see whether I was getting up. “Is there coffee?” I asked.

“Enh,” he said. “There were only whole beans. I don’t love you that much.”

* There is no love, there is only proof of love. I happen to disagree, but we find it a useful construct, nonetheless.