you taught me that the coffee would be better if you fold the flaps of the cone-shaped paper coffee filter. the bottom flap to one side, the side flap to the other. i didn’t really believe you at the time, it seemed like such an unimportant detail, but i wanted to be polite and said, oh i see, following your instructions. but later, when you were not around, i became lazy, placing the filter into the coffee maker without the careful creases, still thinking that the coffee tasted great. later still, a nice coffee machine with its own reusable mesh filter, and i did not have to think about you and your careful, creased paper cones. i tried to stop drinking coffee. but now, years later, another apartment, another city, no coffee maker. the coffee here is pretty good, but the cafés are expensive. i gave in and bought one of those plastic one-cup drip filters. started making coffee again every day. the motion came back to me, and i’ve started folding the flaps of the paper cone again, the bottom flap to one side, the side flap to the other. i still wonder if the coffee tastes better. still think of you every day.