The Cup and the Coffee
“What is it about coffee that’s so great?” I said. “I could drink it all day.”
He didn’t answer right away. We stepped over the tools we’d left out from the night before.
“I think it’s the companionship,” I said finally. “It’s with me at the best times. And the taste — sweet and dark. Like sour chocolate. Maybe if we put as much thought into this job as we do our coffee, we’d be out of here by now.”
He laughed. The fourth day on a small tile job in the city had worn us both thin. I’d spent more time plucking leaves out of the mortar than mixing it. I was behind, distracted. Truth was, I’d been thinking about quitting — not just this job, but the whole trade.
The sun had barely crept over the townhomes, and the electric candles still glowed in the windows.
I sipped the last of my lukewarm coffee.
“The Swedes and Italians love coffee,” I said. “They’re patient. You could learn a thing or two from them.”
He shot me a look.
I grinned. “I’m playing. If I drank coffee like you lay tile, I’d still be on my first cup.”
He smirked but didn’t say anything. Just kept working — slow and steady, like always.
I watched him a moment, then shook my head.
“You know what I don’t get?” I said. “You move like you’re in no rush, but you never stop. You don’t take breaks. You don’t complain. You’re eager to put the coffee down. Meanwhile, I write poems about it, man — you treat tile like it’s sacred.”
He laughed, low in his throat. “Maybe it is.”
I looked at the grout stuck under my fingernails. “You love this more than I love coffee. And that’s saying something.”
He didn’t answer at first — just pressed another tile into place.
Then: “Remember when Christ said, ‘Father, if You are willing, take this cup from Me; yet not My will but Yours be done’?”
I nodded.
He didn’t look up. Just worked the trowel across the floor in smooth, even strokes.
“That was His cup,” he said.
“This one’s mine.”
The trowel slid gently along the surface — a quiet rhythm, like prayer.
“I don’t love tile,” he said finally. “I love what it does to me. It hurts, yeah. But it keeps me honest. Keeps me grateful. You see the good in coffee. That’s easy. Try finding it here.”
“So what?” I said. “You think I’m weak?”
He shrugged. “We’re all weak. That’s why we’re given cups.”
I looked down at mine — cold, empty — and for a second, I didn’t know if I wanted to set it down or fill it again.
The wind picked up. My breath disappeared in it.
We got back to work.