Love is not those terrible cartoons people seem to find in the Los Angeles Times‘ classifieds section. Love is not mutual infatuation paired with graphically making out in school hallways and street corners. Love is Cafe du Monde’s coffee and chicory blend put through an espresso machine with a little water so that it drips out, a thick black with orange foam. Love is packing vanilla ice cream into a glass and stinging my hand pouring the fresh espresso. Love is watching the beige and deep brown mingle, and licking the spoon that’s encouraging the process. Love is the smoky, bitter-sweet liquid coating all of my mouth. Love is relishing not giving up such a treat despite my dentist’s pleas and warnings. Love is the perfect sugary, decaffeinated calories that are complete satisfaction wedded with anticipation for the next glass.
Maybe I need a boyfriend.