Coffee
written by: Johanna Kropfitsch
Some things are too heavy, like a standard ceramic mug. He lifted it carefully and inhaled deeply. The coffee was still warm from this morning. The faint steam brushed against his face, dampening his skin. A small tickle crept up his nose, and he wiped the condensed drops away with the back of his hand.
He looked at the cup. Sitting there, on his kitchen table, staring back at him. It was white, with two slim stripes circling the porcelain. One bright, almost neon green, the other a deep marine blue. He had always wondered why the manufacturer had chosen those colors. They never really fit.
Outside, it began to pour, just as the man on the TV had promised yesterday. At 12:32, the first drops hit the pavement. The smell of petrichor drifted through the open window, mingling with the weak aroma of the watered-down brew in front of him. He decided to close the window. The cold air would cool the porcelain, stealing away the last traces of warmth.
Just a little longer, he thought. Just stay warm a little longer, and everything will be fine.
He rubbed his hands together, then cupped them around the mug. The smooth surface pressed against his palms.
He had made her coffee at exactly 9:30, as he always did. Two sugars, too much milk. Otherwise, it would have been too bitter for her. He used to tease her for that. Who wants their coffee sweet? Why drink it at all if you don’t like the taste?
She would just smile, stirring lazily, as if the world would wait for her to finish. Maybe in only a second, there would be a knock on his door.
The rain outside deepened into thunder, rolling in from somewhere far away. He wondered if things might have been different if he’d bought a microwave, while he touched the rim of the cup, tracing the spot where her lipstick used to fade. She could have just reheated her coffee whenever she wanted to.
He turned toward the chair across from him. The cushion looked slightly indented, the fabric darker where it had been used more often. But there was no one now. Only he, and the cup, and the steady ticking around the numbers, captured in his clock.
At exactly 13:03, the coffee turned cold. He watched the last wisp of steam fade into nothing. He kept looking at the cup, as if waiting for something small to happen.
A sound.
A shift.
A sign of life.
Nothing.
Just a whisper, barely audible, begging,
“Just a little longer.”
