Coffee Girl
Through bloodshot eyes born of little sleep and far too many memories, she pours the first cup of coffee. Hot, sweet, and light the brew offers its first toast to the coming day. Her kitchen bears the scars of too many mornings such as this. The window over the sink once bore witness to carefree times and overlooked a happy place where children played games, family pets destroyed countless plants, and fruit trees somehow managed to produce edible memories from happier times.
The barren floor feels rough on her bare feet as she manages to sit at the nearly broken table which also bears scars from too many days in existence. She sighs deeply as she takes another sip of her coffee, wishing for some of those better days to return. The house remains quiet, still, motionless safe for the clicking of the coffee machine as it cycles to keep her coffee warm, eagerly awaiting her second cup, and at times a third before she cleans some portion of her derelict dream house.
The morning sky is grey, lending to the depressing mood. From another room, life appears in the form of a large tabby. The cat walks slowly, seeking another source of warmth for its arthritic joints. She purrs softly and rubs around her human’s legs as if the coldness in that touch could ease some of her pain as well. She is rewarded by a soft touch, a gentle rub of her head, and at last a spot on her lap, which is warm and comforting. She wonders about the source of warmth in the cup, forgetting it made her stomach hurt the last time she drank from it. The caffeine did little for her digestion and without dignity; she hacked up her meager breakfast on one of the bathmats.
In silence they offer to each other the comfort few souls could understand. Around the corner, in another quiet and darkened room; hidden under years of dust lay the remnants of memories from years before her entry. She has yet to explore them for the door stays closed. As curious as her nature is, she has no want to enter that room. It is always colder than the rest of the house in winter and much warmer than she desires in summer.
Today, she places the tabby on the floor at the foot of her chair and pours another salute to the grayish day ahead. There’s so much to do, yet so little. She has no care to pay the bills as they are all paid for her. The trust fund still has enough money to keep her existence stable. She cares little for the contents of the garage, yet she makes her way there this morning. The old smell of rubber, oil, and gasoline linger. The first bay stands empty. Once, her father’s prized possession sat here, saved for the sunny day drives they enjoyed together, drives the entire family enjoyed when the weather was fair and days were brighter.
The second bay houses the family car, her mother’s car, or as her mother proclaimed it; the family taxi service. The tires low on air, the hulking van held little to stir her soul. Memories from their old day to day life, countless trips to the dentist, doctors, schools, grocery trips, and church outings faded with each passing day.
The third bay was her only prized possession. Her parents called the bike her Rebellion in Pink. The pink Harley Davidson modified soft tail was hers, though she rode it very little even when she felt rebellious. She felt attached to the bike, but riding no longer suited her passion, yet she could not part with it. She opened the garage door to allow some of the stale air escape. The grayness of the day seemed to pour in, almost overwhelming her. She felt the grey enter her soul so deeply she almost dropped her cup.
Rattled by the burst of sensitivity, she took the last drink from her cup and steadied herself to face the view. Clouds covered the blue today and the dampness dripped from the leaves of the hedges separating her yard from the neighbors. Barefooted, she steps into the cool driveway as she manages to walk its length. The morning paper lies in a puddle of water beside the box she purchased to keep the printed word dry. At least the environmentally friendly plastic protected her dose of daily reality.
She returns to the house and enters the kitchen again. The tabby lies in her chair, seeming to warm it for her, yet she knows better. The house cat will stay there most of the day, soothing herself with her own warmth. She feels a long bath might ease her own pain, yet as she draws the hot water into the tub, she feels mostly numb. Her bath salts delivered by a lady she never sees, and never needs to, grant a small bit of lightness into the nearly dark room. Light bulbs to replace were not on her to do list today. Maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrow.
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