Watery Coffee

You wake up slicked with sweat again. Your muscles are taut, perspiration streaming clammily down your cheekbones. You walk to the bathroom mirror, splash water on your face, and it occurs to you that you should probably shave. But staring at your gaunt, shaggy reflection in the mirror, you grimace. You think:

Normal people do not live like this. Because if they did, we'd all be dead.

But you try to be content with it; after all, you're responsible for your current state of mind. You should be satisfied with waking in the morning to dreary sleepiness and a cracked mug brimming with watery coffee; it should be sufficient to place your earbuds in your ears and lose yourself in the murky, droning depths of indie music.

Breakfast is orange juice and a stale granola bar. The juice is pungently citrus; when you think about it, you realize it's probably halfway past its expiration date. If you tried, you could do better. Sure, your job is only minimum wage, but you have sufficient money to scratch up a decent breakfast. But you don't want anything better; it's good enough for you. You're scum, remember? Good enough is okay for you.

Okay. You use that word quite frequently. It's okay. I'm okay. We're all okay.

You never were a good liar.

Then you've caught the bus and are headed to college. When it rains, you watch the raindrops sliding down the windshield and silently place wagers on which one will win because traffic is horrible and the bus is moving at a snail's pace. You even find yourself painting false dreams about capturing the victorious raindrop in a tiny glass vial, and proudly holding it up on the rare occasion you attend a social event.

"See this? This here's WaterMeDown. He won the Windshield Derby Five times running. He's a champ; he's got the heart of fighter..."

You think, Damn, I'm such a weirdo. But it doesn't bother you too much because it's actually a slightly intriguing concept.

When you exit the bus, you make the short walk to the only college class you're attending; it's based around the underlying messages concealed in artwork and literature. The majority of students would find it monotonous; however, it enthralls you.  Lurking in the back corner with your eyes intently focused on the chalky blackboard and the spectacle-wearing teacher at the front, you're genuinely interested.

After class let out, you sling your bookbag over your shoulder and walk outside. Your classmates are walking off in groups, a few of the especially fortunate in pairs. It's almost lunchtime; they're going to eat. It strikes you that you should probably get food, but the mere thought of food makes your stomach lurch. You don't need it. Don't worry; you'll be okay.

You resort to your oldest standby: a trip to the library. A scruffy ascetic tucked away in a secluded reading nook, you plug into your earbuds and indulge in the literary genius of Hemingway.

A few hours later, you head to work and stumble through your job, accepting money from customers and punching numbers into the outdated cash register that malfunctions from time to time. You smile when it's appropriate because you want to hang on to your job even though it's minimum wage, and the last thing you need is for someone to complain about you. Your boss has already been on the edge about keeping you on the payroll for months, anyway. Probably the only reason he's kept you on is because you're at an impasse in your life, and he knows that you, like any needy underachiever, will do almost anything to hold onto your sole source of income.

After work lets out, around nine o'clock, you walk home. The streetlights shed pools of light on the sidewalk, and you find yourself moving hastily between pools. You're not exactly sure why. Maybe it's a childish impulse to avoid the creatures of the dark. People are most scared of what they can't see and don't understand, and who knows what's lurking in the darkness?

You reach your apartment safely. The key sticks in the door, just like it always does, but you jiggle it slightly and the lock creaks and the door swings open easily when you press against the knob. It's empty, the way it always is. You are suddenly desperate for the light in the corner to be on, to hear a slight clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen that signals her presence, to walk up behind her and wrap your arms around her and rest your chin on her shoulder. You want to inhale and smell the faint strawberry scent of her hair.

But you tell yourself to shut up and get over it. You were horrible to her, she got smart, and she left. Now it's time for you to be a man and accept the consequences for your actions.

The rationalization is fairly affective until after you've written a page in your journal and you've crumpled onto the bed, turned off your desk light, and pulled the sheets up. You think:

Was the bed always this big?

The pillow on the other side is achingly empty. In a moment of reminiscence, you reach over and pull up the blankets just like you always used to do when she was there with you.

There you go, babe. Nice and warm, so you won't get chilly.

You will yourself to sleep, attempting to sidestep thoughts that keep you awake, but it's futile. So, in an effort to bore yourself to sleep, you run over things in your mind. They're not significant; they're just things. They're things like the way the washing machines in the basement sound when they're rumbling during the rinse cycle, like the way the shadows in the corners of the ceiling resemble triangles, like the way her laugh sounded when she was drifting off to sleep and you said something she found funny.

As soon as you catch yourself leaning in that direction, you stop and try to redirect your thoughts. Sucking in a deep breath, you think about just things.

And eventually, you do drift off. Your mind whirls off into memories of her, and then you're truly gone. But she's there in the dreams, possessing startling realness.

You dream of when she would crawl over the covers to you in the mornings, when she'd kiss you on your jaw and run a finger through your hair. You'd crack your eyes open and she'd be smiling. The cool metal of her engagement ring would glance against your neck as she'd place her hand there, and then you'd feel a warm shiver run through your spine, the one that only her touch could provoke.

You're trembling, but you reach for her hand. You pull yourself up over her in one smooth, well-practiced motion, and as you're about to kiss her mouth, everything screams and it's all blending and it looks like the footage you saw when the hurricanes were wracking New Orleans, until,

pop,

you're awake.

Your muscles are taut, you're breathing heavy, and your entire body is covered with a thin sheen of sweat. But you stand up, you walk to your bathroom mirror, and you think,

Normal people don't live like this. Because if they did, we'd all be dead.

And you pour yourself a watery cup of coffee because, before long, you'll have to leave for school.