The good news: I went thirteen months without consuming a cup of coffee.

The sort of bad news: tonight I drank a cup of coffee for the first time in thirteen months.

How did I accomplish this? you may ask. And why? Why would a New Yorker ever give up her coffee?

The saga began my semester abroad in London, where coffee was just never brewed like New York coffee, and tea was so much better and more readily available. I became a tea junkie in jolly old England – those Brits do love their tea. My jumbo box of PG Tips took up half a cabinet in the shared dorm kitchen. Unable to finish it, I packed the leftover teabags in a plastic Ziplock bag and stuffed them in my suitcase back to America, hoping that Airport Security wouldn’t mistake them for something more sinister. To my knowledge, my bag was left alone. I donated the bag of tea to my mom’s kitchen pantry shelf. It’s probably still sitting there.

Back in the States, my aversion to coffee continued. Convinced that it was for health reasons, I kept up my personal restriction. I did have a sensitive stomach, and coffee sometimes irritated me. This was a good idea.

Then it was the ID Project Low Impact Consumption Month, and in addition to no plastic bags, I decided not to drink coffee (sort of cheating since I had kind of already given that up). But this time it was official. Really. No coffee for a month no matter what. I didn’t miss it. I ordered tea or hot chocolate and I was happy. I drank less caffeine; I had less heartburn and the satisfaction of having stuck to something I said I would do, even if it was as small a thing as not drinking coffee. I received incredulous looks from the baristas at my coffee place when I ordered green tea and a cup of ice. It really wasn’t a big deal. Tonight, however, was the last straw.

Saturday night my sister and I were at Penn Station waiting for the train and we had a few minutes to kill so we popped into Starbucks. Immediately I wanted a vanilla latte. That was weird. I hadn’t wanted coffee for over a year. I wanted it so badly, in fact, that I could preemptively taste it in my mouth, but I ordered a hazelnut hot chocolate instead, in keeping with my restriction. No complaints about the hot chocolate, but it wasn’t what I wanted. Coffee coffee coffee, damn it.

I blame the season for my lapse in self control. The smell of fall is a lull; the smoky scent of the heat finally being turned on in my apartment makes me giddy with nostalgia for my next-door neighbor’s Christmas parties; gloves and scarves are romantic wardrobe additions; the crisp pinch of chilly air when I head to the bus first thing in the morning wakes me up. Fall is a jolt into cold, and cold makes me want to warm up, and coffee is warm in a way that tea and hot chocolate will never be. Something about the texture, the way it echoes in your throat. This evening on the way to my neighborhood café where I do my writing, I inhaled the October air and I just knew – my coffee embargo would have to be lifted tonight.

I decided what I’d order before I even made it to the coffee place. Decaf vanilla latte. Pretty tame, but it was thirteen months and it was what I wanted. I lifted the plastic cap off the cardboard cup and took in the beauty of the white clouds of froth stained with patches brown from the liquid underneath. My tongue dipped into the top layer of tiny bubbles and a shiver went down my spine. I took my first sip. I let it coat my tongue, roll around in my mouth, slide down the back of my throat, smooth and sweet. What a luxury. I held the cup in both hands under my nose and inhaled the scent. It smelled like fall should smell. It smelled like being in love. I savored it for an hour and a half.

I don’t know what possessed me but I had to tell someone right away. Coffee in hand, I apprehended the olive-skinned barista and informed him, Just so you know, this is my first cup of coffee in over a year, and it’s amazing. Genuinely appreciative and a little surprised he said warmly, Thank you so much. Enjoy. Maybe he was just happy I wasn’t complaining about something being wrong with it. He walked past my table to go smoke a cigarette outside, humming along with the radio, Even if you were broke, my love don’t cost a thing.

Who knows if the coffee I drank tonight was really all that great. Maybe it was mediocre. But every sip, every conscious sip, made the colors in front of me brighter and the sounds around me ring more melodious.