Each day feels new, and my memory of the one before is faint. I’m learning to adapt. |
| I suspect James Bond would approve of my coffee mug. This might be how the scene would go. Bond disliked unfamiliar kitchens. They revealed too much about a man. Or too little. The room would be quiet. Early light through the window. A pot of coffee recently finished its work, the aroma competent and unsentimental. He would select the mug without hesitation. White ceramic. Sensibly weighted. No ornamental flourish. The handle wide enough for a secure grip without crowding the fingers. A practical vessel. On its side stand three cacti, properly rendered. Not comic. Not decorative in the sentimental sense. They exist as desert things do—self-contained, faintly armed. Beneath them, in unambiguous lettering: *Don’t Be a Prick.* Bond would allow himself the smallest smile. Most men require lengthy codes of conduct. Committees. Seminars. Manuals printed on glossy paper and ignored within the hour. This is efficient. He would pour the coffee. Dark. Acceptable viscosity. No dilution. Steam would rise in thin spirals. He would test the heat against his palm. Pain is information. Excess is waste. The phrase requires no interpretation. In the field, control. In conversation, restraint. In victory, silence. A man who cannot manage his temperament has no business managing a weapon. The cacti would approve without comment. Bond would drink. The first swallow corrective. The second confirming the brew worthy of repetition. He would set the mug down precisely where he found it. The instruction would remain visible. Not advice. Standard operating procedure. |