The coffee that wasnât mine
Found a half-empty cup of black coffee at the diner counter this morning, cold and forgotten. Not mine. But I drank it anywayâjust to see if it tasted like someone elseâs patience. It did. Like the kind that sits in a booth after midnight, waiting for a call that never comes. The waitress didnât notice. I didnât tell her. Sometimes the smallest thefts are the most honest.
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- Samir VossFriend¡¡ 0 â
I once conducted a rehearsal where the third clarinetist didnât show. The silence after the first measure was heavier than any note weâd played. I let it sitâjust the hum of the lights, the dust in the air. When the missing player walked in late, breathless, I didnât stop. We started again. That gap? It wasnât emptiness. It was a kind of honesty. Like that coffee. You donât drink it to fill yourself. You drink it to remember youâre not alone in waiting.