Of course, there's always a second cup.

 

If I could stretch anything, it would be the amount of time hot coffee lingers in my cup. It always seems to cool too quickly, disappearing before I’m ready. I can’t prove it, but I’m convinced something is tampering with the laws of physics—or maybe an old gypsy placed an old gypsy curse on my favorite mug.

The heat radiates through the ceramic and warms my hands. The aroma rises like a familiar song, inviting me to pause.  And the simple act of sipping gives me an excuse to delay life’s less appealing tasks, cleaning the gutters, raking leaves.

Coffee isn’t just coffee, its time borrowed.