LATTE / THREE-TIERED TULLE SKIRT
Monday 21 October 2002
I don't really *like* my life at present, which rather fucks up the old
'happy little entries! Ooh! Look at the quirky web girl!' type thing.
I feel rather sad a lot of the time, even in the middle of happy things,
like hugging a beautiful boy on a rainy Soho Sunday afternoon, sipping
a gorgeous three-tiered latte.
Oh! It was a work of art, this latte. This I can talk about with genuine
glee, this latte. It wasn't large, but hey, size isn't everything, so
they say, and the 'curve of lurve' (thank you, Disco) is not a thing you
wanna see on your latte glass; slender and rigid and straight as a die
will do me there, thank you.
While I adore the lattes in the paper cups with the plastic lids that
you suck your drink through (look, I'm always gonna be a sad little web
girl, a dried-up oh-so-two-thousand faded internet yuppie slash corporate
whore, and I've accepted that, and I think you should too) - there is
so much to be said for the far slower experience of a latte in a clear
glass, gently slanting up from the base.
The drink segues from tan to milky whiteness to foam, and, if you hold
your glass to the light, you can always see a few grains of coffee swirling
around at the bottom, ably demonstrating the laws of particle physics.
Some sort of physics, anyway, primary school physics, about heavy stuff
not floating, but hey, it gives me a special *wrongness* thrill to mention
science in any way shape or form, so run with me on this, or better yet,
email me with hott scientific details and a subscription to New Scientist.
G'waan! If you loved me you would.
This glass was presented on a white plate with a white napkin folded under
it, and the whole thing - drink, napkin, plate - was dusted with cocoa
like a negative shape snowstorm on an ice-rink, and it was quite lovely.
You think of coffee as this decadent evil blackness that stains your veins
and nibbles at your stomach lining, till it resembles the black lungs
of the corpses at Bodywords, pulpish and malleable and frightening. You
think of coffee as the evil best friend of the silky cigarette, willingly
ingested in woeful close-your-eyes-to-terror bliss, left to run ramshackle
red round your tender insides.
But if on a rainy Sunday afternoon you drink a three-tiered latte delicate
as a white tulle skirt, balanced on a plate like a promise, speckled with
cocoa, shot through with coffee grains - well, it could almost make you
believe in love.
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