Sad Coffee

Paper cup. A cup made out of paper. "Mh," I think, looking at my second round of school caféteria Americano. Or what's left of it: a dark rim at the bottom, forming a perfect circle - which reminds me of the wheels of my golden foldable bike that haven't touched any asphalt in almost a year now - and several brown spots, slowly drying into an almost artful pattern. My carrot cake has been devoured with the first cup and I wish I had controlled myself earlier, because now I wish I had a round bite of that squared  piece of sweet. 

I'm sitting on a felted step on the third floor of the SOAS mainbuilding, right in front of the closed and not-for-use door of the library. Unlike the hustle and bustle of the ground floor, this little pockety spot is quiet and mostly ingnored. I never knew, because I used to be one of the passers-by and if it hadn't been for my mistake of not double-checking my timetable, I might have never found out about it. It's quite nice, and somewhat comforting with a shut door in the back that never opens. 

I look back at my cup and check the pattern. Yep, the drops are dry now and have become brown dots. For some reason the thought of fading romance enters my mind and makes me sigh. Like cheap coffee, burning hot at the beginning, then perfectly satisfying for a few sips, actually the better part of it, but eventually it cools down and looses its appeal. You can tell it's getting closer to the bottom, the final quarter of the game. And at the end, all that is left are dry memories in a paper cup. A cup made out of paper.