Java jive

I like my morning coffee, my morning newspaper and my wife, but in what order?

Most days, in the scramble before leaving for work, my priorities are clear: My coffee and my paper, with my wife on the side.

Cheryl doesn't mind playing second fiddle. When I'm at the breakfast table, chewing on oats and news, she's flipping pages on the couch.

Both of us find it hard to talk while digesting how the baseball playoffs will shake out and why Sean Penn's new movie is tanking at the box office.

As nearly perfect as this routine is, we often throw in a twist on Fridays, decamping to a coffeehouse.

Here priorities change. We leave behind newspaper trivia and focus on each other. We have genuine conversation, often our first of the week. With so much attention being bestowed on the other, it feels like a date.

These Friday time-outs took a hit this fall with the start of the new school year. With a son now in high school, Cheryl had chauffeur duty before rendezvousing for coffee.

I found myself arriving before her with a few minutes to kill. And so I thought, why not bring along the newspaper and squeeze in a little reading.

By the time Cheryl showed up, I would be deep into an analysis of this Iraq business or how General Motors got clobbered by high health care costs.

It was hard to put down the paper, but I did. I folded it and pushed it away from me.

But not out of view. It still beckoned from the edge of the tiny cafe table, like a triple-shot mocha with its elbows spread out. Read me, it whispered.

Did Cheryl notice me peeking at the headlines while she talked about her schedule for the day, if indeed I was peeking?

All I can say is that a few weeks ago Cheryl drank hardly half a cup, then announced she was departing. She wanted me to have plenty of time to read my paper, she said.

Such generosity of spirit. I accepted her offer.

The following week, I arrived at the coffeehouse extra early. I wanted to read even more of the paper before she arrived.

When Cheryl walked in, I sensed she wasn't happy. I thought maybe the traffic snarl around the high school had been extra bad.

I'm not intruding, am I? she asked.

Of course not, I said, looking up from the sports section. It looks like those A's are going to make it.

That morning's coffee was the shortest yet.

But not the shortest possible. That happened the next week. After cooling her heels for five minutes in the coffee line, Cheryl inquired if I was having a good time with my paper.

Before I could fully answer, she turned and headed for the door.

Wait, I said. I'm putting down the paper. Watch me!

My words fizzled into thin air. She was gone.

This was a troubling development, to be sure, but what was I to do? I resumed reading about the health threat of trans fats in our diet.

On my way to work, I played over the morning's events and wondered where was the rub. Shouldn't I get points for efficient use of time?

I got an e-mail later in the morning from Cheryl. She said our Friday breakfasts had been special, but now they weren't. She felt she couldn't compete against the New York Times.

What mortal can? I thought. The New York Times is the greatest.

Still, perhaps she had a point. Perhaps a very good point.

I wrote back. Our Friday coffees are special, I said. It's a treat to be able to steal an hour from the routine of the work week just for us.

Male intuition told me this wasn't enough. A major concession was called for. I made it.

I'm ditching the Times on Fridays, I said. It will be just you and me ... and the coffee.

I can report that domestic bliss is back. It's just like the old days.

As for the Times, we now have a standing date for Friday lunch.

Kevin can be reached at 256-2217 or Napa Valley Register, P.O. Box 150, Napa 94559 or kcourtney@napanews.com