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Maybe he just wasn't good at it. He wouldn't always have to be the best at everything. But he was still stubbornly determined to try again and again. He knew the technique, why couldn't he do it?
All he had to do was to pour water, neither too hot nor too cold. Then add the grain, crushed into a fine powder that he didn't have to squeeze, but he still used a little force to try to make the texture a little thicker, more to his liking. He would put the lid on and turn it around slowly, fitting it on perfectly. The fire was always at a minimum, the bottom of the pot could barely be seen heating up; and before the coffee burnt, he would remove it from the fire and the whole kitchen would melt under the bitter smell of freshly brewed coffee.
It was something that drove him crazy. Each time he made it, it tasted different: waterier, bitterer, sweeter, slightly thicker... It didn't seem to help that he changed the type of coffee every time he made it.
First, he would make an espresso, tasting it and giving his approval, which never happened, there was always a hitch. If he liked it, he'd pour more into a cup; if not, he'd look at it reproachfully, swearing he'd never make more coffee, that it was beyond his abilities. He didn't have to be good at everything.
However, whenever he found himself in the quiet of the galley, listening to the gentle sound of the waves lapping against the wood of the boat, the breeze coming through the small hatch, the footsteps on the wood... all those sounds that made him take out the coffee pot and start with the silent ritual that brought a silly smile to his face. Something he loved so much and was so bad at. He couldn't help but enjoy it.
Most of the time he hummed to himself, imagining music that was never there and that made him move to a calmed rhythm in the solitude of the kitchen as he cleaned the already spotless cabinets. How could he not dazzle himself in his own amusement as he listened to the faint crackle of the fire, the smoky sizzle of the coffee maker from time to time, the sound of the coffee coming out, the smell that began to flood the kitchen, the glug of coffee as it finished...
He couldn't help the hint of romanticism that oozed from the ordinary and pleasantness of the kitchen, he couldn't help dancing under the pretext of being in an unknown dance, guiding the steps of his non-existent companion, letting himself be carried away by the music that the stove offered him. He could never tire of this sheltered place that was his.
A new batch of coffee was freshly brewed, this time with a new bean they had found in one of their island restockings. He pulled out the most expensive cutlery he had, for it was only a matching cup with a small plate to set it on. A small azure teacup that was notable for its uneven edges and being slightly rough-hewn. A little indulgence he had given himself some time ago.
He opened the lid, smelled the fresh coffee, poured it into the cup and then sat down at the table, next to his notebook. He smelled it, stirred it and tasted it. The aroma had a bitter aftertaste, the texture was too thin for his preference, and the flavour was hidden under an excess of water. He sighed in disappointment. He didn't think it was the pot, the coffee even less so, for if he knew his caffeine was strong enough the taste should be more bitter. He was the problem, it seemed. Again, he had done it wrong. He noted down the result of the coffee in his notebook and proceeded to improve it with a little cocoa and some milk. He thought the cocoa might help thicken it slightly however the milk only accentuated the watery taste. He tried again, hot milk, cocoa and a little coffee.
He licked his lips with pleasure, having found a middle ground, but still angry with himself. At this point, it seems that he would never be capable of recreating the same taste he once had delighted him; however, the thought of achieving it exerted an irresistible seduction on him.