Jim leaned back in his chair, a hot cup of coffee in his hands. He liked coffee, caffeine in practically all of its shapes. And although he enjoyed all the hues, all the soft nuances that would oscillate according to the ingredients present in the mix, Jim found himself more and more leaning towards black coffee, pure and strong.
Coffee, as everyone knows, is not sweet. Not everyone likes coffee and, in fact, most people modify it until it suits their personal tastes better. But the real beauty of coffee, that which makes coffee so essential to his day, is precisely the fact that it's so unique, so different.
The details are essential. The scent of coffee, of a well-done coffee, of course, is a delight all on itself. You can feel it passing through your body, through your veins, through your nerves. You can distinguish it from a distance. Then comes the texture, the color, the temperature. Every detail, related to each other in a pattern that already would be quite interesting on its own, make the coffee what it is.
An addiction.
Sure, he could saturate himself of pretexts and excuses, but there was no point in denying. It was already an addiction, yes; maybe it was even before becoming one. That is, maybe it was already an addiction before it was a preference. The process of getting involved with coffee is complex, but that is what makes it all the more interesting. James Tiberius Kirk was a decided man, and if he had chosen coffee, then coffee it would be.
And like all addictions, Jim no longer pictured his life without caffeine. He didn't know if he couldn't, or if he didn't want to.
He looked at his First Officer and smiled, receiving a short nod and a light sparkle of dark eyes.
What mattered, thought Jim, rising the cup to his lips, is that he didn't need to think of how it'd be.