Tim admired the coffee beans as others admire a sports car. The hue of them captured him, you could see it in the way they held his eye for a moment. He was in some sweet photograph of time, utterly escaped into a pocket of joy, then he returned to our conversation fully present.
The coffee beans were more hues of brown than it is practical to name, but so divine to see.
The coffee beans would make Amaria giggle, she imagined them as having mouths that would chatter and sing songs. In her daydreams they were lips that longed to talk and be heard.
The coffee beans were our luxury, a sign that times were good; for we could only plant them when everyone was well fed, when we had the growing space to spare.
In the hessian bag were the coffee beans he had been given in Columbia, from those sun adorned hills. They felt light in the palm, yet gave a heavy and strong aroma that transported us all to happy times.
The coffee beans come to us, grown by such expert hands, true masters of the soil with the experience of generations.
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