TUESDAY MORNING AT SEATTLE'S RAINDOG CAFE
by Jeff P. Jones.

Grind
From the moment the overhead blade releases with a faint click, the importance of time fades into the background, and the world, now full of possibility and light, yawns open in suspended clarity. The only suggestion of any motion at all is the metallic hiss ticking downwards. It takes years for it to reach the back of your neck but when it does, oh, the payoff!

Steam
The foremost vanguard of electrons on the blade's edge begin to commingle with those on the outermost ends of hair on the back of your neck, and in that chilling instant you realize that this is what you've been waiting for. This is what everyone would want if they knew what it was. This. Is. Life.

Pour
And you realize life is not about things, not the Jaguar you bought when you were forty-five and parked into the side of a house one drunken night; it's not about the money you've made, all your high-profile investments and acquisitions, your teary-eyed speech at your daughter's wedding, the glare you gave your ex-wife when it was over; it's not even about love, though you should've figured that out on your own after about the fourth try. You know suddenly that life is about clarity and you realize you've got about half of a second left to enjoy it before your body and head become two separate things.

Sip
. . . a sick motion . . . sky and ground rolling past . . . lights, colors, pressure . . . your gaze finally comes to rest on the familiar faces of those you knew as the blood drains from your eyes . . . an outstretched hand would have done wonders . . .

Swallow
. . . you realize the brain doesn't need the heart. The heart is already in the brain. In fact, the brain can tell the heart what to do. It did many times in your life. But it feels strange to be separated from your heart, nevertheless. You kind of liked it . . .

Stare
Then you find yourself. Staring. Into. A. Cup. Of. Coffee. You forgot to order decaf. And almost lost your head.