What to Say to the Demon Who Guards Your

Coffee

Caleb James Stewart

The demon that sat by my coffee pot set on a timer to start making coffee at six thirty, so that by the time I get to it at seven, it’s done and cool enough for drinking, waited for me again this morning. There was nothing special about today. No anniversary of it being there, nothing new about the position it sat in, no new Joker-like grin that showed its yellowed and decaying teeth. It was just another normal day for me.

I reached for the coffee pot as I kept my eyes trained on it, and it kept its large golden eyes trained on me. Its face was unmoving, but its eyes followed my hand tothe pot, as I grabbed it and walked across the kitchen to the cabinet where I have four clean mugs, three of them white with a red interior, and the fourth, a Rangers mug that I had bought at a game a few years earlier. I reached for one of the white ones and poured the coffee, both watching the slowly warming cup in my hand and the demon that sat across the way. We did this every morning. I’d been working up the nerve to maybe say something to it, but honestly, I was scared it might say something back. What would I do if I asked it, “How are you this fine morning?” and it responds, “Great!” or, “Terrible,” or just cusses at me? Or would it say anything at all? This morning, as I put the coffee pot back on the warmer, I reached over, and both absentmindedly and very consciously, patted its head. The hardened greasy hair touched my hand, the horns kept it from getting any closer, and I felt and heard a small purr.

I retracted my hand and moved on with the rest of my morning routine, pretending as if it hadn’t happened. But I thought about what happen later. It didn’t bite my hand, it almost reacted positively to it. I think tomorrow will be the day that I decide to ask it how it is doing. As I walked out the door I said to an empty house, “Goodbye!” and closed the door before I heard no response.