We'd been together for four or five years. Our mornings together were always a bright point on the day. I'd roll out of bed, groggy and snarly, and without fail, she was already up. She'd offer me a cup of coffee like it was a tire iron, beating the monkey off my back like Gordon Freeman with a vorpal crow bar. I'd wander off to the shower and start my day. Sometimes we'd spend a quiet evening together, just enjoying an evening on the patio. Other times, camped out in my office, with her spurring me on, like a demonic frenzied muse, as I trolled and fomented whatever internet board I was bent on terrorizing. Politics, religion, travel, guns, food, she didn't care. We were good for each other. Without a doubt, it was love, in every sense of the word. But I never saw it coming. No warning signs. No outbursts. No arguments. She was waiting for me in the kitchen as usual, but offered nothing to my morning grunt of greeting. She just looked at me, impassively. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Is everything ok?" Silence. "I don't understand, please talk to me." Trying to shake myself awake. It was still pretty early. Everything about her was cold and hard. Realization hit me like a sheet of ice cold water. And just like that, our relationship was over. I didn't know what to do. I was lost. I tried to hold her, to touch her in familiar ways that she might react in some manner that wouldn't break my heart, to rekindle the warmth I knew had to still be there. The pit in my stomach felt like a black hole, threatening to consume my existence, this cold fire of despondency slowly building in me. I was a see saw of emotion. Anger, guilt, desire, hunger, need... loss. So I tossed my broken coffee maker and picked up a new Arabica French Press. I'll let you know how it works out.