Everyone familiar to me knows that given exposure to most mind altering substances, I am bound to give in, and partake.
As a barista by afternoon, every time the weather changes and every two hours, I check the grind. Which entails extracting the essence of espresso beans- not just pouring hot water onto ground coffee!
The rain comes, I check the grind.
The glorious sun comes out, I check the grind.
The breeze finds it's way into the joint, I check the grind.
Knock the grinds into the nice, dry portable in an even manner- make a big messy, heavy mound at the top. Tap everything in place, smooth it off even with the basket lip. Tamp the aromatic sand with thirty pounds of pressure, into a perfectly even cake. The gasket from steam to cake has to be at peak pressure and temperature, to that has to preheat.
Finally the time comes to push the button and count till the shot glass measures one ounce, but, first you bless it- you wipe it clean of any not compacted grind.
If the grind is just a hair too coarse or fine, the thing is shot. ha-ha.
So, being the coffee romantic I am, not a perfect drop goes to waste. The shabby ones I don't touch.
Today, the coffee was perfectly extracted after the shift change fiddling.
When Ben came to the shop with his Bishop, or Pastor, or Preacher- I actually forget the preferred term, the end of the day sun was heating up the place and every other customer was ordering the essence of the mind.
But the grind was off and I couldn't mend together the required kind of time for tweaking it.
Which chaps my ass.
Then, as is customary for some reason with Leigh's cappuccino, my foam started really lacking oomf and continued being pathetic or burnt.
Once Ben showed up.
I tell you what.
When I worked as a teller at the credit union ( I do not recommend it), my till was always off when Ben showed up. Whether it was at the beginning of the day or close to closing, my ability to count failed me as my heart bippity bopped and my cheeks felt sore from trying so hard all day to knock that doofy grin off. Many an embarrassed phone call from yours truly, to some poor credit union sod, explaining mu huge fuck up and manager fixing, when Ben was around. Not to say it was always and only when he was around, but this works for my story.
And I don't know why.
I don't think of naked things.
I don't think of grade school crush things, or any sort of crush things.
I don't think of much.
And oh holy shit, I think I would have made a better Breve blindfolded.
Poor lil guy.
All I can say is, he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, but not in a romatical way...
However, it's not like I shake uncontrollably and make terrible coffee in the presence of beautiful art, landscape, other abundantly gorgeous Suprunowskis or powerfully moving music. So maybe I was just over caffeinated and glad to see that he's up and around, after that nasty car accident.
There is probably no answer to why this happens.
I would call it a crush, but it is not that involved, emotionally.
Physically, I thought my face would fall off if I tried to stop grinning and blushing, and that I would surely have a fugging heart attack.
But, anyway, click on 'nasty car accident' up there and read about this dude.
I don't consider myself religious, or even interested in religious culture of any denomination or system, any more. I was hungry for it at one time, but it ran it's course and I am now more or less bumbling around Jung's idea of individuation, with a healthy dose of Zen in there somewhere.
Christianity is fascinating. Sociologically for one thing, how it is saturated in social involvement, socially accepted and socially dependent. Culturally, psychologically.
I'm sure Jesus loves everyone, but he loves Ben more, and that's just fine with me.
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