I wake up slowly with an aching head and a dry mouth. I remember drinking too much last night. Slowly it occurs to me that I don’t smell coffee brewing. Sarah has made me coffee every morning for almost eight years now. Then, reluctantly at first, I remember the argument we had last night; it was a bad one. We were both plastered and apoplectic. Hell, we were both apoplectically plastered. There was a lot of truth spoken last night, or rather, a lot of truth spilled, almost as if by accident. We’ve been arguing for months now, but neither one of us listens—we just wait for our turn to talk. We both dedicate every word to self-defense, to the, you just don’t understand! As if understanding is what matters. I find beauty in plenty of things I don’t understand, but this particular argument was odd; it left an air of finality in the house—it’s become undeniable that we’ve reached the nadir. It’s a cold feeling that makes my stomach turn. I’m sickened that the honesty isn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be. I find myself panicked, suddenly wishing she were here so we could talk, so I could take back some of the more acerbic things I said. But why? I was being honest. Maybe I just want to hear her take back some of what she said. I head for the kitchen to make myself coffee, feeling childish for thinking that.
I dismantle the coffee maker: filter, carafe, coffee grinds, water, swiveling plastic pieces. It all slides back into place and the red light comes on with the touch of a button. I marvel at the synchronicity of it all. Our synchronicity is shattered, Sarah and I; the pieces aren’t in place for percolation. Pin pointing the exact moment of departure is impossible, as is articulating the reasons for boarding. But it’s an undeniable truth that the ship is well under way. I’m starting to think that love is more elusive than I realized; after years of refining it, I’m in the process of redefining it, soon to be in the process of re-finding it. Maybe love is just a type of lust that lingers, longer than you want and not as long as you want all at once. It’s incompatible with duration, indeed, the two are mutually destructive. Love gets bored and allows its thoughts to wander. Love forgets, but doesn’t forgive. Love will be childishly angry and do vindictive things without knowing why, but it will swear it knows why all along. And you’ll believe it like the fool you are. Other times love feels like some strange, culturally-engrained obligation—there are, after all, children involved. I can’t bail on that obligation; I’m just not that guy. But, staying just for the kids? What a joke that is! People rarely stay for the kids; they stay because of swollen pride, or blind determination, or a comfortable complacency, or because of the ensuing awkwardness of getting laid again. Not for the kids. I pour my first cup of coffee before the whole batch finishes; it continues to drip without the carafe, hissing as it splashes onto the hotplate and then evaporating. Poof! Gone. Just like that. I pour the coffee quickly into the mug she bought me in Hilton Head; the one that says, Was last night good for you too? The answer was yes, but then that was years ago. I replace the carafe in the machine and reach for the sugar as the coffee drip finds its way back into it, concentric ripples in the brew, a black tide. I stare blankly at the words on the mug. I allow myself to drift back to our vacation at Hilton Head—the shadows floating about the room, the curtains dancing with the ocean’s breeze; all of it a serene, moon-lit green. Back from that beautiful black beach and into the sheets; a flurry of limbs and hair; lips and necks; shoulders and breasts; fingertips and nails; legs wrapped tightly; burning arms. It’ll be another woman soon though, someone else’s neck, lips, shoulders, needs, quirks, judgments. It’ll be another man soon, too. I’ll probably have to call to come by and see the boys. He’ll probably open the door for me. I stand in the kitchen, coffee in hand, each sobering realization tightening my stomach just a little bit more. My head is throbbing, my mouth sticky and dry. Outside, two squirrels chase each other up the old sycamore, winding, scratching, and clawing their way up and back down again. The birdhouse we made with the boys is left swinging and swiveling from the critter’s commotion. We were all happy the day we built that, especially the boys. It’s easy to find love in memories like that; such little things in contrast to the wall we’ve built between each other. Maybe love is just the little things—the memories and the taken-for-granted; maybe it’s in the sand, salt, and sweat Sarah and I left in the bed sheets at Hilton Head; or the time she hit me over the head with a Stouffer’s lasagna, still frozen in the box, before forgiving me for kissing another woman the night before; maybe love is my coat hanging over hers on the rack, or the pile of shoes by the door—hers, mine, the boys’—all cluttered together; or maybe it’s in the aroma of coffee in the morning. Maybe the whole damn thing is just about compromise, one between yourself and your fears of being alone. And you always seem to compromise yourself first. I just don’t know anymore. Hell, maybe it’s me who needs to change. I take a seat on the couch and gently blow the steam off the top of my coffee before sipping at it. It’s too bitter; she always made better coffee than me. It’s more than just the coffee, though. Everything is going to change now. Comments are closed.
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