As I crawl out of bed, I can't remove the blurriness from my eyes, despite how much I blink. And as I wonder why I crawled out of bed in the first place, I remember why. For my best friend. The dark brown, almost black perfection in a smooth white glass, the mug's ceramic edges soft against dry, first-thing in the morning lips.
But to get there, I have to crawl out of bed. So as I narrowly avoid stepping on a sleeping purple-and-green dragon, almost trip over some star-patterned sheets, and nearly trip over my own hooves, I focus on that perfect cup full of... perfection.
Carefully avoiding the crack in the rough wooden floor that almost always trips me, I keep my slow pace as I slide towards the door, a slow, fluid movement I complete every morning. A ritual, a tradition. And as I rejoice in my succeeding in avoiding that first crack, I walk into the door.
Dumb, is the first thing I think to myself. But I ignore the thought and exit my room, magically opening the door as I take a small step backwards. Continuing towards my goal, I slink down the stairs, magically moving anything in my way. I walk past bookshelves and lights, candles and mirrors. The mirrors are the only intentional avoidance-I look awful in the mornings. And then I can see it. The kitchen. Its comforting darkness entices me as I lift myself from the floor, now standing even with my desks.
Entering the kitchen has to be done just so. I can't do it too fast, nor too slow. So I keep up my average just-woke-up pace, carefully stepping onto the smooth linoleum that is shrouded in darkness. First my right hoof, then my left. Just like always. And I magically light a candle, just like always. And it's always the same candle, a candle that is nearly burnt out from overuse. A gift from... that one Princess. Yeah, that one.
Foggily, I stumble towards the machine. That's what I've always called it. The machine. Nothing fancy, but it fits. I magically open the cupboard door that is just above my head, and the sunlight shines through the curtain's crack, falling precisely on my mug. So I magically lift it, and set it down on the smooth, powder-blue counter top. Like always, I leave the cupboard door open, hitting my horn on it, then slamming it shut angrily. Like always.
Grabbing the mug angrily with a sparkling, plasma cloud of magenta, I set it down on the counter near the refrigerator now, and lift my head so my horn aligns with the door handle of it. But, per tradition, my horn is a bit off from hitting it on the cupboard door, and the seal on the white box proves too much for me to break, forcing me to use a hoof to open the door. Like usual. My magic is good enough to lift the coffee creamer in its thin plastic case, so I set it down on the counter, next to the smooth white mug.
Happy, like usual, that my magic returned in strength, I shut the door of the refrigerator magically, and turn to the cupboard now directly to my left and two hooves up. My magenta cloud grabs the handle once again, and though I'm not tall enough to see, I can tell where the sugar packages are. And how I'm grabbing exactly four. Then I lift the bag of coffee beans, smiling at the label. Heavily-Caffeinated.
I repeat a step of my routine, lifting all the ingredients back to the original counter. Setting them down, they all fall silently, in a smooth fashion as I open the top of the coffee machine. Pouring the powder into the filter, I'm sure to turn the handle to the proper position and shut the lid tightly. Then I wait. But like usual, I didn't turn it on, because I always forget the water. So I magically lift a measuring glass, flicking the water on behind me.
Just like usual, I know exactly how high to fill the measuring glass, and turn the water off with skilled magical practice. Bringing the water back towards me, I always spill just a bit, evening out the water perfectly before I pour it into the water reservoir. Now I hit the start button, and watch the coffee drip slowly into the pot below. Time flies, and before I know it, the coffee is done, its smooth, dark brown surface staring up at me. Or is it black? I can never tell.
Kindly, I pour the coffee into my mug, not quite completely full, but close enough to the brim that I have to sip a bit of it off before adding the sugar and creamer so it doesn't over flow onto the smooth, pristine counter. As always, I added a bit too little creamer, and notice just as I'm about to put it away, so the container zooms back to me, adding just a bit, no more than a teaspoon into the mug before returning to its place in the refrigerator.
Lifting the sugar packets, I dispose of them, dropping them into a white trash basket just near the doorway. I sit down, staring at the now-lighter toned coffee, the way its creamer hasn't quite set in, leaving white swirls in it. Lifting a spoon from a rack nearby, I stir absentmindedly, simply enjoying the now unmelodic chimes of the spoon against the ceramic edges of the cup. And when I subconsciously know I've stirred it forty-two times, I set the spoon down, any drips of coffee lost in its flight to the table.
My coffee mug stares up at me invitingly, and just as the sunlight falls across the table I'm sitting at, pointing at me, I take my first sip. And a second. Draining it now, enjoying the energy as it shoots through my body, electrifying my brain, my nerves. And I finish the first cup, now pouring in the second from the transparent container. The second cup is always straight black, never any creamer or sugar to add to its unique, bitter flavor. And just as I finish the second cup, setting it carefully in the sink with the spoon inside it, Spike stumbles down the stairs, and reaches for the bag of coffee.
