Day 42: Twin Pines (Afternoon)
Godot versus the coffee pot, round seven.
The prosecutor felt more like himself with every sip, and by the third pot, he'd began giving advice to the waitress on just how to prepare each new carafe. She'd been resistant at first, asking if she should bring out the coffeemaker for his personal use (and then explaining it had been a joke when he told her he wouldn't mind cutting out the middleman). Now, he sat relaxed in his side of the booth, eyes closed, breathing in the vapors of the first new mug of this brew. Even from the same blend, the final products had subtle differences in character. Was it a heavy hand that poured the grounds into the filter? Had the water gotten just a degree colder since the last time the machine was used?
Now that he'd been able to calm the cravings, Godot enjoyed picking apart the subtleties. It was a passion few understood, and even fewer dared to master. But producing fine coffee was nothing short of an art, and he intended to be the Da Vinci of his time. Certainly there were other ways he could be spending his time in the town, trying to explore or arm himself, trying to find those illusive answers. But that sort of work could be left to people like the Wild Filly; Godot would feel no great loss if she drove herself to insanity by refusing to slow her pace.
Godot knew better. He knew his limits. And he knew he could only avoid the work until the coffee ran out.
Ha! He really had slept for far too long. Now he was trying to hold on to a pleasant dream in the middle of the day.
[For Edgeworth]
The prosecutor felt more like himself with every sip, and by the third pot, he'd began giving advice to the waitress on just how to prepare each new carafe. She'd been resistant at first, asking if she should bring out the coffeemaker for his personal use (and then explaining it had been a joke when he told her he wouldn't mind cutting out the middleman). Now, he sat relaxed in his side of the booth, eyes closed, breathing in the vapors of the first new mug of this brew. Even from the same blend, the final products had subtle differences in character. Was it a heavy hand that poured the grounds into the filter? Had the water gotten just a degree colder since the last time the machine was used?
Now that he'd been able to calm the cravings, Godot enjoyed picking apart the subtleties. It was a passion few understood, and even fewer dared to master. But producing fine coffee was nothing short of an art, and he intended to be the Da Vinci of his time. Certainly there were other ways he could be spending his time in the town, trying to explore or arm himself, trying to find those illusive answers. But that sort of work could be left to people like the Wild Filly; Godot would feel no great loss if she drove herself to insanity by refusing to slow her pace.
Godot knew better. He knew his limits. And he knew he could only avoid the work until the coffee ran out.
Ha! He really had slept for far too long. Now he was trying to hold on to a pleasant dream in the middle of the day.
[For Edgeworth]