The affair ended as suddenly as it began.
Twelve years ago I purchased a mid-grade espresso machine. It wasn’t the sort of thing they sell at Macy’s, but neither was it one of the beautiful, artisanal devices that start north of $1,000. It was, I told myself at the time, firmly in the range of acceptable indulgence. In the ensuing years, it was put to use—at roughly 6:30 a.m. and 3:30 p.m.—pretty much every day. And what espresso it made.