Making coffee is easy

Someone’s here. Push in the portafilter, start the grind. Loose, coarse dust, not quite like sand, not quite like dirt or coarse sugar, just itself. Tamp. A little wobbly. A weak wrist. Lock in the basket, press the button, the machine hums, buzzes, growls? It’s loud, anyway. Someone is talking to me but I can’t hear. Just nod. The pressure dial shoots up, the liquid flows, variegated brown. At some point I remember to charge the customer. Tap the transaction into my phone with one hand as the other pours milk, as the shot pulls. The phone vibrates in my hand as it kisses the customer’s, a happy little ding. Then back to it. The pitcher is so cold at first. Cradle it, stare into it, intent. The steam comes slowly, thump, thump, thump. Then there’s a hiss. Stretching the milk, they call it a tearing sound. The liquid pulls in towards the tip of the steam wand, eddies and pressure. Little droplets of milk fleck my face and hands, a mistake, but not a problem. Stretching, then vortexing. It should be a whisper. It usually is, not always. It should be a whirlpool, melanging the textures together, tearing the bubbles apart. The pitcher starts to burn my hand; I turn the dial, and the steam wand whines sadly as it powers down. Set down the pitcher, wipe down the wand as the machine hisses and growls again, steam rising from below. Knock the pitcher on the counter. The larger bubbles break, leaving craters on the glossy surface. Glossy, just right. Swirl, knock, swirl again. Then pour. I never get the pour quite right, but no one seems to mind. Part of me criticizes the lightness of the brown base, the thickness of the foam. No one else criticizes it. I make shapes I didn’t mean to, abstract art, and give them Rorshach names: that’s an elephant’s ear, those dots symbolize your friends who live far away from you, that’s a baby being cradled by the moon. The customer lifts the cup to their lips, cradled in their hands. A hummingbird hovers at my shoulder, making its tiny sound. The hopper is empty. I love the smell of the beans as I open the bag to pour them in, like trips to the grocery store when I was a child, stepping on loose coffee beans in the aisle where they sold them in bulk, the way they crunch squeak break brittle under your shoe, the way they smell. I pour in a cascade, and pat them into the hopper like I’m putting them to sleep. Lid on. Keep them safe. The water is running in the stream down to my right. The sun is in my eyes and my fingers are cold and I’m content. Someone else is coming. Press the button, turn the portafilter over and back and forth to rinse it. Wipe it out, attach the dosing funnel. Hi! The usual? Push in the portafilter, start the grind.