Your sweet beige silk spreads through my medium roast like blood in the water, or smoke in the sky. Mom, I have something to tell you. It billows, enveloping the sour and turning it into a hazelnut and cream symphony. I kissed Lynira. We became girlfriends last week. The coffee could be from anywhere, and you’d make it taste like home. I know I’m only 8, so I’m not allowed to date. On a plane, at the car shop, in an office, a stranger’s apartment. No, we won’t tell Dad. We don’t have to tell Dad. The smell of you reminds me of my mother, who, now, in age and health, is limited to a single caffeinated cup a day, and infinite decaf cups for the rest of the time. Please don’t tell Dad. She sips on while watching her morning talk shows. I don’t want to get in trouble. Sometimes she puts you in her tea. I didn’t know this could affect his job. She’s never drank you straight from the refrigerated plastic vase in which you reside, but I have. I didn’t know adults could talk like that. You were like milk, with more of the best parts—sugar and fat. Yes, I’ll tell her it’s over. There’s not much in my life that reminds me of home these days. Yes, I understand. That’s on purpose. No, it will never happen again. But what gets me up in the morning remains the same. Okay, I’m sorry. Alternatives like oat milk are fine. I’m sorry. They make me feel healthier. I’m sorry. But only one makes coffee feel like more of a treat than a necessity. No, I didn’t tell anybody else. More of sipping on the sofa, curled up, watching Kelly Ripa. It’s like Carol and Susan. More of balancing an old lap dog’s sleeping head in one hand and a glass mug in the other. No, you don’t need to take “Friends” away. Of mornings with Mom. Yes, this will be our secret.