Percolation

Let me preface by saying that I'm not a coffee brewing expert. My experience in any sort of coffee making outside of adding hot water to packet coffee has been with my mother's 1970s-era Mr. Coffee maker and my newly acquired Moka express. That being said, the past three days of my life have felt like a Moka express coffee making experience. Right now, I'm just past the percolation point where the water from the bottom has reached almost boiling and is shouldering its way up and through the grounds, violently spilling over into the upper container, and I pray that the container is big enough to accommodate everything that's coming.

If I stand back far enough from the muck with my objective lenses, it's a beautiful mess -- the kind of amorous mess that the Greeks often penned. Girl meets boy. Girl starts dating boy. Boy breaks up with girl. They get back together. Girl misreads boy. Girl breaks up with boy. Girl takes a long holiday and ponders. Girl realizes she loves boy. Girl returns to boy and asks if a third chance is possible. Boy tells girl he's promised to his previous girl. Girl collapses into a pile of second-guessing, regret, bad timing, pain, anger, and a whole lot of snotty tissues.

To be cliche, I feel like a female character in a Jane Austen novel, only I'm not sure if Jane will write me a happy ending after such a damning display of assumption, prejudice, and over-reaching expectations. I'm holding out hope that she'll write me a conclusion that gives me what my sanity needs, not necessarily what my heart and body want.