The Second Pot

My dearest morning pot of coffee, I love you more than I can say. You are always there for me, coaxing me awake, chasing away my slumber, a morning lover whose sweet kisses danced along lips like a secret mistress. My dearest morning pot of coffee, we have spent nearly every morning, weekday and weekend together, and my respect and admiration remains for you.

But there is another.

I can no longer live a double life, I must confess. I have been seeing a second pot of coffee in the evening. By the time five or six o'clock rolls around, morning pot of coffee, you are nothing but an afterthought, a fleeting memory of a day gone by. I turned to this second pot of coffee out of desperation, a necessary evil when faced with heavy eyelids and impending company. But this innocent sampling has become something more, something greater, something I cannot control.

You know, morning pot of coffee, that I have my indiscretions. Once, twice, even sometimes three times while I am away at the office. But this is no mere dalliance with a new flirtation. I have come to love, to desire, to crave the second pot of coffee and I am helpless against it. I come to you out of respect, out of our history together. This need not be the end of our relationship. I will come to you faithfully upon my rise each morning. But know this, sweet morning pot of coffee - there is another. Not a replacement, but a complement. And this will not soothe the blow, it may worsen it: my wife is no stranger to the second pot of coffee, either.

Please try to understand.