In the morning, I fill the coffeepot with water. I fill it up to the six printed on the glass. The water sloshes as I pour it out, out and into the back of our simple coffeemaker. This makes about two mugs of coffee and leaves about another mug in the coffeepot. Sometimes I waste that last mug. Sometimes it’s still sitting in the coffeepot the following morning, dark and stale and unloved. Other times, lately, I enjoy that final mug in the early evening. The sun begins to set at a quarter to five. The falling light brushes passed our windows, quietly settling against the white eastern wall of our home. I heat the last mug in the microwave then. I warm it, wondering if the microwave’s invisible energy could turn my black Costa Rican beverage into something radioactive, wondering and not caring.