The Grind:
Stefano Capacchione

It wasn’t my fault. I did everything you asked me to do, exactly the way you asked me to do it. It’s probably not your fault either, I guess. Did anybody warn you? Did anybody tell you how all of this works? Yes, it’s complicated, yes, it’s frustrating, yes, it’s sometimes upsetting and emasculating but if only you gave it some more time, we could get it right.

We could get it right!

Do you know? I still remember the day that I first saw you. You looked at me like I had been painted by Picasso or Da Vinci, your eyes glistened. Not quite a tear but there was moisture as your mouth moved from its widened position to an astonished smile. I wanted you, you wanted me. You picked me up, embraced me, placed me delicately down and whispered, “Yours will be the first that I see in the morning.”

Morning came. It was a grind to start off with but we both knew that I wasn’t like the others. There was more to me, you found it charming. I was warming up, getting to my flow. You tamped down, with a force I had yet to see and put me through my paces. I was sweating. You didn’t expect to see that. The shame. A brown sweat, almost solid, glopped to the surface below.

“We’ll go again tomorrow”. Nothing more said, nothing more needed. I knew you didn’t blame me.

Morning came. It was a grind to start off with but we both knew that I wasn’t like the others. There was more to me, you found it charming. I was warming up, getting to my flow. You tamped down with a force I had yet to see and put me through my paces. I was sweating. You didn’t expect to see that. The shame. It washed over me, it covered the surface below, it ran into worlds I didn’t even know existed, a tasteless stream, a wasteful waterfall, what must you think?

“We’ll go again tomorrow”. Nothing more said, nothing more needed. I knew you didn’t blame me.

Morning came. It was a grind to start off with but we both knew that I wasn’t like the others. There was more to me, you found it charming. I was warming up, getting to my flow. You tamped down with a force I was becoming used to. I couldn’t sweat. I couldn’t even cry. Nothing was coming through. I didn’t know how to communicate with you. All my senses were blocked. The shame. You helped me, you fixed me. You sighed. Would I see you tomorrow? Did you blame me?

Morning came. It was a grind. It was such a grind. You looked at me with despair, with disgust. You lashed out, you screamed, you didn’t bother to even try. You left.

I saw you every morning but you didn’t look at me. You’d had enough. You went back to her, to what you had before. You spent time with her, smiling nostalgically at what you used to know. You forgot about me.

One day, many moons later, you glanced in my direction. Was this my moment to shine again? You picked me up but your touch was not gentle like before. When you threw me down, next to the old washing machine, the dirty laundry and the discarded toaster, I knew my time had come. I knew it was over but it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault!

Why didn’t they tell you. Why didn’t they explain that to make the perfect coffee, everything needs to be just right. The beans, the grind, the tamping, the temperature of the machine, the measurements, the flow, the love. You had that once. The love. If you learned how to treat me well, I could be yours again and we would produce something that can only be described as beautiful. Will that day ever come? We’ll see but I hold no grudge. I’m just a coffee machine, after all.