Making Coffee
The sun drifted through the dust, skipped off the dresser mirror, and back out the window. A blue-bottle fly buzzed against the screen and woke her from her shallow sleep.
She turned over in the bed and squinted at me for only the briefest moment. Then she turned away again, and she said in a sticky voice, "It's dangerous to know you too well, far too dangerous."
I shifted my legs from under her and over the edge of the bed. The hardwood floor was cool to the touch of my feet.
"You exaggerate," I replied softly, as I stood up and made my way down the hall to the bathroom.
"Make some coffee," she shouted after me.
"No," I mumbled to the cool morning air. "You make it."
I showered and brushed my teeth. I considered shaving, but didn't. Instead, I wrapped a towel around me and meandered back to the bedroom.
She was fully awake now. She lay in the bed with her head propped on her right hand, while she twirled her thick black hair in the fingers of her left. She seemed lost in thought, but her eyes suddenly snapped back into focus. "Did you put coffee on?" she asked.
"No."
"Huh?"
"No," I repeated and then added, "I'm not making coffee for you today."
"Why?" she nearly shrieked in astonishment.
"I always make the coffee. You can make it for a change."
"You do not always make the coffee. I make it more often than you do."
"No you don't. I can't remember when you last made coffee."
"I made it just the other day."
"No, you didn't."
"Yes, I did," she whined in her worst falsetto. "I did!"
"No, you didn't," I mimicked. "You didn't!"
She flung the covers away from her and scrambled to get out of the bed.
"You're like a child, a silly child," she said angrily as she pushed by me. "I never make the coffee? Never? Today, tooooday, I'll make the damn coffee for you. And maybe tomorrow, toooomorrow, I'll be making coffee for someone else!"
She was beside herself with rage now, and she stomped down the hall in a fury. As she passed the bathroom door, she slipped on a small patch of water that I had trekked out into the hallway from the bathroom. Her knees buckled as she failed to negotiate the stairs that led down to the main floor. She fell three stairs at a time and landed with a deafening thud at the bottom. I watched, almost breathless with amazement.
"Are you dead?" I called down to her.
She did not reply. She simply lay motionless at the bottom of the staircase.
I pulled on my dark blue robe and made my way down the stairs. I almost tripped on her left leg as I stepped over her.
"Such drama," I moaned. "I have to admit though, you're getting better at this. I can barely tell if you're breathing."
I managed to get by her and into the kitchen, where I quickly boiled some water and poured it into the French press that I had filled with a single scoop of Kenyan coffee grounds.
Then I sat at the kitchen table by the window and waited for the coffee to brew.
The following is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is purely coincidental.
The sun drifted through the dust, skipped off the dresser mirror, and back out the window. A blue-bottle fly buzzed against the screen and woke her from her shallow sleep.
She turned over in the bed and squinted at me for only the briefest moment. Then she turned away again, and she said in a sticky voice, "It's dangerous to know you too well, far too dangerous."
I shifted my legs from under her and over the edge of the bed. The hardwood floor was cool to the touch of my feet.
"You exaggerate," I replied softly, as I stood up and made my way down the hall to the bathroom.
"Make some coffee," she shouted after me.
"No," I mumbled to the cool morning air. "You make it."
I showered and brushed my teeth. I considered shaving, but didn't. Instead, I wrapped a towel around me and meandered back to the bedroom.
She was fully awake now. She lay in the bed with her head propped on her right hand, while she twirled her thick black hair in the fingers of her left. She seemed lost in thought, but her eyes suddenly snapped back into focus. "Did you put coffee on?" she asked.
"No."
"Huh?"
"No," I repeated and then added, "I'm not making coffee for you today."
"Why?" she nearly shrieked in astonishment.
"I always make the coffee. You can make it for a change."
"You do not always make the coffee. I make it more often than you do."
"No you don't. I can't remember when you last made coffee."
"I made it just the other day."
"No, you didn't."
"Yes, I did," she whined in her worst falsetto. "I did!"
"No, you didn't," I mimicked. "You didn't!"
She flung the covers away from her and scrambled to get out of the bed.
"You're like a child, a silly child," she said angrily as she pushed by me. "I never make the coffee? Never? Today, tooooday, I'll make the damn coffee for you. And maybe tomorrow, toooomorrow, I'll be making coffee for someone else!"
She was beside herself with rage now, and she stomped down the hall in a fury. As she passed the bathroom door, she slipped on a small patch of water that I had trekked out into the hallway from the bathroom. Her knees buckled as she failed to negotiate the stairs that led down to the main floor. She fell three stairs at a time and landed with a deafening thud at the bottom. I watched, almost breathless with amazement.
"Are you dead?" I called down to her.
She did not reply. She simply lay motionless at the bottom of the staircase.
I pulled on my dark blue robe and made my way down the stairs. I almost tripped on her left leg as I stepped over her.
"Such drama," I moaned. "I have to admit though, you're getting better at this. I can barely tell if you're breathing."
I managed to get by her and into the kitchen, where I quickly boiled some water and poured it into the French press that I had filled with a single scoop of Kenyan coffee grounds.
Then I sat at the kitchen table by the window and waited for the coffee to brew.
