In the break room of the building where I work, there’s a big Nespresso machine with two coffee outlets. As soon as I enter, shedding my jacket and hanging it carelessly on a chair, I find myself instinctively walking toward that machine, like it’s some kind of ritual. From the capsule tray next to the machine, I pick a capsule based solely on color preference—since I have no taste preference—and slide it into the inlet. Soon, the loud noise fills the air as the aroma of coffee spreads around. It’s a peculiar feeling, like catching a whiff of soft lilac in early spring while standing next to a construction site breaking up a cement floor. When the coffee starts dripping from a height that makes you think, ‘This is a bit disappointing,’ the machine’s roar begins to quiet down. The part I always marvel at is the moment the last drop of coffee falls, the machine’s vibration motor sound stops, as if the world just ended. It could be that the sound stops after the last drop, or no more drops fall once the sound stops. It’s certainly one of the two, but they happen so simultaneously that it’s impossible to tell which it is.
The sound vanishes, but the scent lingers.
Just like the body departs, but memories remain.
I have an old, small Nespresso machine at home too. It’s small, but the noise it makes while brewing coffee doesn’t lose to the one at work. For over ten years, it’s been working tirelessly, like a stubborn old barista, delivering perfectly brewed coffee. I don’t use the machine at home often, so I always unplug it. To brew coffee, I plug it back in and wait for it to warm up, during which I enjoy watching the button blink aimlessly. It might be the longest time of the day when my impatient self just spaces out without a thought, and then it’s back to the hustle and bustle. And then, silence returns.
These days, spending more time at home, I’ve started noticing things I didn’t pay much attention to before. Drying eucalyptus, fallen capsules or eggs, peeling wallpaper, windows that won’t shut properly. Unfinished network work I started organizing nags at me, and the desktop that needs upgrading is a constant bother. I always pushed these tasks aside, slipping in at night and leaving with a ‘sorry’ in the morning. But now, everywhere I turn, chores seem to stare back at me. When that happens, I push aside the guilt, slowly head to the old coffee machine, and brew a cup. As it warms up, I empty my mind, lose myself in the immense noise, and return to reality, reset, like hitting the reset button on a desktop or using the neuralyzer from Men in Black. It’s quite convenient.
The scent of coffee always lifts my spirits, but when I actually take a sip, all I get is a bitter taste. Speaking of taste, I can’t help but think that the ancient death potion might have been similar to coffee in color and taste—though I’ve never tasted it, of course. In historical dramas, prisoners facing the death potion often have a twisted expression as if they’re smelling something they can’t in this life. If there were a coffee-scented death potion, wouldn’t those scenes have been quite different?
‘Mmm… hmm… nice.’
With such a lovely aroma, one could reminisce about happy times and cherished people with a peaceful expression. Then, like taking a sip of coffee, they might pucker slightly before paying for their sins. Doesn’t it feel a bit more elegant? I’m not sure if offering an elegant way to die is a good thing for a sinner, but nevertheless, I hope the time comes soon when I can sit blankly at my favorite cafe, even if it means being a bit further from my home coffee machine.
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