It all started with an accidental, well-brewed cup of coffee.

My girlfriend was sitting by the window when I passed it to her. She looked at the mug for a time, then sipped at it gingerly. Her eyes widened.

โ€œThis isโ€ฆ good,โ€ she said.

โ€œYou sound surprised.โ€

She shrugged.

โ€œYou usually make bad coffee,โ€ she said.

It was, to be sure, my greatest shame as a coffee writer.

โ€œWell, I mean, baby steps, right?โ€ I said. โ€œRome wasnโ€™t built in a day, and all that?โ€

She nodded, and looked back at the mug. It was like sheโ€™d found something in it that she didnโ€™t know was there before.

โ€”-

The following weekend I brewed another cup of coffee.

She was sitting by the window again when I passed it to her. I watched her sip from the mug and pause to think.

โ€œThis isโ€ฆ not good,โ€ she said.

โ€œI think maybe the grind is tooโ€ฆ coarse?โ€

She looked into the depths of the mug, like she had heard my words and knew them individually, but couldnโ€™t understand their meaning together.

โ€œWhere did you get this coffee?โ€ she asked.

โ€”-

That day, we went to a local cafe in Kichijลji. She hunched down by the counter, watching the barista pour. Concentration was etched into her features. Focus seeped from her eyes.

โ€œDo you do this?โ€ she asked, pointing to the Kalita dripper.

โ€œNo, I use something different,โ€ I said. โ€œI use a V60.โ€

She looked at me for a moment, then at the barista, then back at the coffee as it dripped into a beaker. Her gaze was intense. Beads of sweat grew upon the nervous baristaโ€™s brow, a kind-looking young man I had never seen before.

Later, we sat on the staircase in front of the coffee shop.

โ€œI donโ€™t know why you donโ€™t make coffee like this,โ€ she said. โ€œThis is good coffee. Amazing coffee. Donโ€™t you want to make coffee like this?โ€

There was a very particular hint of disappointment in her voice, and it haunted me the rest of the day.

โ€”-

The following weekend, she asked, โ€œCan I make the coffee?โ€

โ€œSure,โ€ I said. โ€œDo you want any help?โ€

โ€œNo, I think Iโ€™ve got it,โ€ she said. โ€œI looked online. You just wait there.โ€

I sat by the window. I thought about how when we met she was like a leaf dangling from the tree outside; happy to just float along with the breeze. I wondered where this new person had come from, with a furrowed brow, bottomless curiosity, and acute intensity.

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When I finally wandered into the kitchen, the air was warm and humid. The cramped space was dense with the weight of trial and error. The sink was full of coffee filters and coffee grinds.

โ€œEverything okay?โ€ I asked.

โ€œIโ€™m doing something wrong,โ€ she said, โ€œI donโ€™t know what.โ€

โ€œThatโ€™s okay,โ€ I said. โ€œYouโ€™ll get better.โ€

She thought about my words like she was appraising their worth. She weighed their meaning and intent, judged their value, then shook her head.

โ€œNo. I need more coffee beans,โ€ she said.

โ€”-

We spent the weekend wandering Tokyo, talking to baristas, drinking coffee, and buying beans. I was a twitchy, caffeinated mess; a packhorse loaded with coffee beans for someone else’s single-minded obsession.

She was hungry for knowledge. She asked questions, took notes, and watched carefully. Temperature, grind size, filter type, bloom time, brew time, source location, elevation, the farmerโ€™s nameโ€Šโ€”โ€Šanything and everything. It was all important.

Sometimes, I noticed a look on her face when a barista gave her the answers she was looking for, or when a cup of coffee truly impressed her. It was a fleeting moment, and one that never seemed to last quite long enough. For the longest time I had no idea what that look was, exactly.

I know now it was love.

โ€”-

The next day I woke up alone. There was a note on my desk that read: โ€œGone cupping. Be back late. XOโ€

I didnโ€™t see my girlfriend that weekend except through Instagram photos for coffee cuppings in Tokyo. In each photo there was the same white blouse, the same tattered red notebook, and the same focused, furrowed brow.

I sat by the window sipping at another cup of a cold-brew experiment gone wrong, and tried to tell myself it was silly to feel jealous of a roasted fruit.

Even if that fruit was stealing my girlfriend.

โ€”-

One morning soon after, she presented me with her first well-brewed cup of coffee.

โ€œThis is good,โ€ I said.

โ€œYou sound surprised.โ€

I shrugged.

โ€œI usually make bad coffee,โ€ I said.

She smiled sadly, and looked at the mug in my hand.

โ€œSomething is still missing,โ€ she said. โ€œI can feel it. I can still do better. I need to do more.โ€

โ€”-

Slowly, my small apartment filled with coffee tools and paraphernalia. It took on the messy, scatterbrained look of a mad scientistโ€™s laboratory.

I wondered if this was the coffee equivalent of leaving your toothbrush in a loverโ€™s bathroom.

โ€œDoes this mean youโ€™re moving in with me?โ€ I said.

โ€œHow about when you brew a consistently good cup of coffee, we talk about next steps?โ€ she said.

She laughed, and I laughed, and our voices muffled the sounds of my heart breaking into tiny pieces, which I swept under the bed later that evening.

โ€”-

Soon after, perhaps inevitably, she announced she was leaving her job.

โ€œI start at the coffee shop in Kichijลji next week,โ€ she said. โ€œI am going to be a barista.โ€

Soon after that, perhaps also inevitably, she announced that she was taking another coffee job.

โ€œI need to learn more,โ€ she said, โ€œIโ€™m not learning fast enough. Also, I donโ€™t have any money.โ€

And soon after that, also probably inevitably, she disappeared into her work; vanishing behind three different cafes and a host of seminars that together created what I imagined as a kind of coffee black hole.

And then, finally, a few weeks later, a phone call.

โ€œWe need to talk,โ€ she said.

โ€”-

โ€œThis is Keita,โ€ she said.

โ€œHello, Keita,โ€ I said.

โ€œHeโ€™s my boyfriend. My new boyfriend.โ€

โ€œOh,โ€ I said. โ€œHe seems nice.โ€

โ€œHe knows about coffee. About flavor, I mean. He understands me.โ€

Keita shrugged.

โ€œI assume he can brew a consistently good cup of coffee, then,โ€ I said.

She nodded.

โ€œI know you probably saw this coming, but I wanted to say thank you in person,โ€ she said. โ€œIf you hadnโ€™t accidentally brewed that good cup of coffee, I wouldnโ€™t have discovered my passion.โ€

I found myself wishing she had left out that word.

Accidentally.

โ€œYouโ€™re welcome,โ€ I said.

I thought about saying something, but I didnโ€™t. The truth was, I envied her passion for my simple daily ritual; I was just sad to think sheโ€™d outgrown me. So, I watched her and Keita put her coffee gear in boxes and pack them into the back of a small hatchback. Then she kissed me lightly on the cheek, nodded, and left.

I listened to the sound of their car fade into the distance while I brewed a cup of coffee. I wondered how long it would be before she left poor Keita for a roaster, or a coffee sourcer, or the charm of a plantation somewhere.

I didnโ€™t think it would be long.

I took my cup of coffee to the window of my now-empty room, and looked at the trees for a time. I sipped from my mug, and smiled.

It struck me as silly to think our relationship would start and end with the very same thing.

An accidental, well-brewed cup of coffee.

โ€”-

Hengtee Lim is a Sprudge staff writer based in Tokyo. Read moreย Hengtee Lim on Sprudge.

Illustration by Kaori Nagata

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