It is in playing that we are most alive. — Winnicott
"And also — coffee at home just tastes better in the morning."
That was my husband's contribution to my long-running question about why couples play these kinds of games.
We were sitting at a kids' soccer game. I was doing what I always do — talking in circles, trying to turn feelings into theories. Talking about ideal couples, about why we envy Jack and Rose, Ross and Rachel, Elizabeth and Darcy. Why some love stories stay with us long after the movie ends. He nodded absently, watching the field, smirked at something about Shrek and Fiona, and then dropped that line about coffee like it explained everything.
What was the point? What did coffee have to do with love stories? Or games?
A $30 Mr. Coffee
We argued for a couple of weeks about whether to buy my dream coffee machine. A minimalist when it comes to everyday comforts, he insisted coffee would taste exactly the same coming out of a $30 Mr. Coffee.
I'm not even really a coffee person. But one afternoon at a friend's house, I tried coffee from that machine and immediately developed the kind of emotional attachment usually reserved for fictional men in period dramas.
He is not a kitchen person. You can't lure him in there just to cook. But for coffee, he showed up. Now every morning, while I put together breakfast, he makes coffee like it deserves its own ceremony.
If he's not home, I throw sugar into the coffee, pour in hot milk, and move on. He, meanwhile, follows the masterclass my friend once gave us like sacred family knowledge: swirling the milk, checking the temperature with his hand, pouring slowly into the cup — and reminding me, every single morning, that he refuses to ruin my perfectly good coffee with sugar.
The first bridge
Then come the foam patterns. Imperfect, abstract, and weirdly entertaining to interpret. A cat hanging upside down like it lost an argument, a melting snowman, a dancing shrimp, and something that looks like a duck but refuses to commit. And I think that's the first bridge between coffee, games, and everything else.
The games slowed us down long enough to notice each other, to build little rituals around ordinary things. While we brew coffee, fry eggs, and make toast, we talk about the day. Or we don't. Or he starts making up silly songs and dancing with the dog in the kitchen. Games definitely helped us to create those repeated moments of tenderness.
Things that only become themselves at home
He's right: coffee at home really does taste better. I love when things only become fully themselves at home.
The light white cotton blanket with soft tassels — the one I gave him for our first New Year, back when we had just met. We dive under it when we settle in to watch Friday thrillers, pulling it over our knees. Without that exact blanket, thrillers just aren't as cozy as they're supposed to be.
Our shared cream-colored suede notebook, slightly worn at the edges, with its very own pink steel pen. We started it for small things: plans, lists, half-ideas, things we didn't want to forget. I fill it with words — emotional, messy, impossible to organize. He writes very little, but manages to sound both emotional and completely clear at the same time. The actual plans almost never make it into that notebook. But afterthoughts do. And aftertastes.
A quieter love story
We want love stories as memorable as Jack and Rose, Ross and Rachel, Elizabeth and Darcy. Actually, I admire Shrek and Fiona the most. I know, never mind. Well, maybe real love stories survive differently, not through dramatic speeches or orchestras swelling in the background, but through repeated small rituals, private jokes, Friday blankets, coffee foam arguments. Through continuing to notice each other long after the exciting part was supposed to end.
We thought we were buying a game, a coffee machine, a blanket. And we grew into our own quieter version of a love story. And maybe that's the point.