A French press fairy tale

Sitting on the shelf at a Chicago Starbucks was a little French press, watching the people of the world order their skim non-fat soy moccachinos day after day. She hoped and prayed for someone to look her way, past the stacks of Ethiopian fair-trade coffee bags and fancy demitasses. She watched everything from hyper-expensive espresso machines to dinky little coffee mugs fly off the shelves, but all that came her way was dust. She sat there in silence, hoping her time would come, some day.

The coffee spoon kept her company. “You are beautiful my love. Don’t let those bean-burning sawdust-juice-drinking dilettantes tell you otherwise. They don’t know you’re the best way to experience coffee. We’ll always be together on a true coffee lover’s desk.  Just you wait till he finds us.”

Snow blew in as the door opened. Regulars filed in, but there was someone new in the back. His gaze drifted along the cake display case and suddenly stopped short of the rack of newspapers by the door. He looked up. He was looking at her! No, not at the coffee bags, not at the fancy cookies. He came closer. She waited with bated breath. He turned away. She felt a gush of disappointment drown her yet again as he walked to the counter.

“That is cute!” she heard him exclaim. “How much is it?” Please, please, please, let it be me, she pleaded silently, trying to push fate to where it belonged. Her pyrex glass heart was about to break in two when she felt the hands of the store clerk  lifting her up from the high shelf. It was her! It was freedom, heady salvation from the prison of doubt. She was still glowing in the moment as he paid. The coffee spoon was grinning. “I told you he’d come, didn’t I?”

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