The Temperature of Dawn

Five in the morning, and the air before sunrise is transparent. She had been waiting for this moment since before she fell asleep. Her fingertips, which set it down at the café last night, still hold the warmth of that hour. She pours water into the kettle and lights the stove. In the quiet kitchen, only the sound of water boiling rings clear. Outside, the dark is still thick, and the streetlamp light bleeds across the wet asphalt. She takes white milk from the refrigerator and pours it into a cup. Touching a finger to the cold glass, she feels its coolness. The kettle boils, and steam clouds the window. She pours the coffee grounds into the dripper, and when she slowly pours the first water, the coffee swells. The scent of freshly brewed coffee spreads through the kitchen. That scent stirs her every morning. The quiet thrill of waiting, which no one else would know. Holding the warmed cup, she slowly takes a sip. The acidity spreading in her mouth, then the nuttiness that lingers at the end. She turns toward the window. The edge of the sky is brightening, little by little. The scent of coffee still remains on her fingertips.