He never liked hot drinks. He was more of a milk man. Tea was his parents’ thing—a cup with breakfast, another at four, a final one before bed. When he was little, they’d nudge a mug toward him, steam curling into his face. “Go on, it’ll warm you up,” his mum would say. But it left him cold.

Coffee wasn’t any better. His friends swore by it: the energy, the buzz, the clarity. He tried, more than once. Still nothing. No rush, no spark. Only bitterness on his tongue.

Then he met her.

She was sitting at the corner table of his crowded local cafe, hands wrapped around a cup. He asked if the seat opposite was taken.

She looked up, smiled.
“Nope, go ahead.”

They started to chat.  About nothing much at first—weather, music, the strange art adorning the walls. Eventually, he asked her name.

“Koffee,” she said.

He blinked. “Like… coffee?”

She laughed. “Yeah. But with a K. Blame my mum. She thought it sounded delicious.”

“Well, I should warn you,” he said, milk in hand “I’ve never really taken to coffee.”

“That’s fine,” she said, tilting her head. “You don’t have to like the drink to like the person.”

Something about the way she said it stayed with him.

Over the weeks, he kept bumping into her there. He watched the way she wrapped her fingers around the cup, not so much drinking as holding onto it, as if it was less about caffeine and more about comfort. He liked the calm she carried, the way her voice filled the empty spaces in his day.

One evening, as they walked out of the café together, she asked, “So, milk over coffee?”

“Every time,” he said.

She grinned. “Then maybe I’ll have to change your mind.”

And he realised, with a slow, quiet certainty, that she already had….and she still does.

RECORDed using iMac and LOgic Pro and roland rs-50, solo