The coffee cup warmed my right hand and its content had burned my tongue. The black liquid tasted bitter, leaving me thirsty. I sat alone in a crowded library, all the way in the back. My companion Steppenwolf laid open in front of me.
Coffee is an acquired taste. I tried drinking my dad’s coffee when I was thirteen, but the bitterness made me spit it out in the sink, the brown saliva dribbling down the corner of my mouth. I scrunched up my face in disgust; my dad laughed. When I was home for Christmas last winter break, I gulped down two cups a day of my mom’s java to get through the day. I don’t remember when I started enjoying the stuff.
Acquired taste doesn’t imply good taste. My coffee palate is somewhere between undeveloped and nonexistent. I’ll take a one-dollar Wawa coffee over a small cup of…
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