at age seven, billy was assigned a school project in which he would research any of the world’s countries and speak about its main exports.
billy selected brazil.
he spoke of coffee.
he brought in fine imported beans.
the smell was intoxicating.
billy did what one does when they smell something intoxicating.
he ate the bean.
instantly, billy’s mind flushed with horrible visions.
this bean tasted awful.
how could this bode well for coffee itself?
billy, you see, was not yet old enough to drink coffee.
his mother feared that it would stunt his growth.
and now, before drinking a sip, billy’s mouth was filled with grit and bean.
he did not like the feeling.
he did not like the taste.
his young life flashed before his eyes.
he had already dedicated his life to this cause.
he already knew how to skim the film off the top of heated milk.
although he wasn’t yet allowed to heat the milk himself, and couldn’t reach the stovetop if he was.
he knew how espresso worked, and looked down his nose at those who pronounced it expresso, even if his nose was rarely high enough to look down it at anything other that a poison tree frog.
or a coffee bean.
and right now, he was looking down his nose at that bean, that bean that was destroying his taste buds, destroying his dream.
he wasn’t sure how he would carry on.