I'm so highly desirous of coffee right now. I know how it would taste. I know that the thicker texture than tea would frolic with me on my tongue, flirt in a serious way, that is, with intentions for more, before I swallowed. There would be quips of pleasure, blithely moved body parts. The bitter intensity might overwhelm me into closing my eyes and moaning lightly at my cubicle. That I would be sated goes almost without saying.
The other side of the equation is that my satisfaction might last only a very short time. Perhaps my downfall would start before I even finished the cup. Remorse. Unclean feelings. Pangs of anxiety. Dirtiness. I'd undress the experience multiple times, from frequently and minutely adjusted angles, in endless loops until frantic internet searching might yield false floors of comfort, and I'd ask co-workers to explain the process, divulging my vulnerability. My head would spin, my work flow would stop, and my tongue might be pickled in the juices of regret. I would no longer be able to adapt to my environment, and would fast forward everything throughout the day only to develop industrial strength headache. I would swear off the sauce. I would tell everyone. I would tell you. And tomorrow, I'd want the same, nevertheless.
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