Oscar

Oscar was the embodiment of precision. Words like meticulous or fastidious barely scratched the surface. For him, being called difficult was the highest praise, a badge of honor earned by demanding perfection. Beneath his relentless pursuit of order, a quiet ache lingered, a hollow space he tried to fill with control. Each morning, he moved through his ritual with the focus of someone defusing a nuclear warhead. Disturb his process, and chaos would surely follow.

First, the coffee cherries. Not beans!

“Coffee plants grow fruit,” he would always say when others called them beans.

Seven spoonfuls. Not six, not eight.

He placed them in the grinder with the reverence of a priest handling communion wafers.

Soft.

Gentle.

Ground precisely for twenty-two seconds.

Then comes the kettle. Filled exactly to the five cup line. Once he filled the water line to four cups, but he found he couldn't sit still. All day long. So now it was always at the five. Boil precisely for seven minutes. Poured immediately into the French press to sit for four minutes —no longer. Then plunged.

He wandered his studio as the water boiled. Everything was in its place. There was a sense of calmness that came with this order, like finding harmony in a chaotic world through the strokes of his brush. The prepped canvases, arranged by size, offered a possibility of new beginnings. Tubes of paint hung upside down by color, brand, and size, awaiting his touch like vibrant messengers of his thoughts. Brushes lay out like cards: numerical, length, and maker. Largest to the left, down to the finest detail brush he used. They were his soldiers waiting to do battle on the left of a glass palette that sparkled, no, dazzled in the morning sunlight. This was his sanctuary, his universe where he could breathe and create.

He poured the water into the press and let the aroma fill the air. A nutty blend of dark chocolate, caramel, and smoke marked the beginning of the parade of flavors. Ending with a sweet floral note of citrus. He breathed in deeply. It was his favorite part of the day. A time before the world came alive.

The roar was monstrous.

The lawnmower sounded as if it were right beside the studio window. Vibrating his head and shaking the walls. Oscar's grip on his cup tightened involuntarily. A solitary brush teetered, then rolled off, clattering on the floor. Covering his ears, he slowly started banging his head on the table.

"Make it stop--- Make it stop--- Make it stop."

Then, there was a sharp, mechanical thunk, and the world fell silent again, the aftershocks of the interruption still lingering in the air.

“Huh,” he smirked, throwing out his lower lip.

He rose from his chair, picking up his cup, getting ready to finally start his day.

Then it happened.

Three short raps.

A pause.

Followed by two more.

He stood motionless. Mug in hand, he pressed himself tight against the wall. Having not found the means to be invisible yet, he truly believed that if one refused to exist loudly enough, then people wouldn't see you. He had to disappear. This could not be his day.

“Mister Oscar? I know you are in there! I can smell your coffee,” the sing-song voice said.

Still motionless, like a heron hunting fish, he was afraid to blink, knowing even that would give him away.

“Okay, Mister Oscar, Im'a gonna prune the roses anyway. Okay?” the voice asked a little louder.

He heard the gardener's footsteps retreat.

“What day is this? Did I change their schedules?”

He scratched his head, forgetting he had the mug in his hand, nearly giving himself a concussion, and headed towards the French press once more.

His eyes lingered on the painting by the door, a portrait he had painted of his husband long ago. His mind wandered back to the day the portrait was completed, remembering the warmth that had flooded their studio. It was a day filled with shared laughter and stolen glances. His smile and quiet charm looked out at him from the canvas, making Oscar feel calmer. Blue eyes that reflected the deepest peace. He didn't remember thinking that when it was painted.

The memory rushed back with a bittersweet sting, a physical ache spreading in his chest. He took the portrait from the wall and carried it with him. He hoped some of the calmness he received from it would make all this nonsense stop.

He inhaled deeply. “Miss you, Baby Bear.”

“Oscar,” the deep voice said, coming from behind the door.

He startled, then froze again. This time, he was a deer in headlights. Eyes wide with panic, his breath caught short in his chest.

“I'm out in the open,” he whispered.

He gingerly stepped as if the floor was covered with bubble wrap, lifting his knees high like a cat burglar, until he was up against the wall again. He just knew the floor was going to fire off like exploding firecrackers. Every seam of wood giving him away.

“Oscar,” the voice said again. “ I know I'm early, but I want to see the painting.”

He inhaled through the tiny opening he made between his lips, convinced that if he breathed through his nose, he would whistle.

He held his breath.

“ I know you don't like showing them until they are finished,” the voice called out again. “But I want to see how handsome you made me.”

Oscar exhaled as quietly as he could, turning towards the canvas on the easel. His fastidiousness had prevailed. The image was covered in a cloth, offering secrecy akin to the Shroud of Turin. No one saw any painting until completed. Not even the model.

“Just go away--- please. This is my time,” his brain pleads, as he longs for his coffee. "Why does this day have to be so unusual? What is wrong with the world?"

“I'll wait by the pool,” the deep voice said dejectedly, as the feet receded from the door.

Oscar pumped the air with his fist, victorious but weary. He raced toward the press, his favorite mug in hand, hoping that the coffee hadn't steeped too long, becoming bitter. He noticed a second cup beside the press and wondered how it got there. Realization surfaced. He recognized the cup. He scrunched up his sleeve and stared at his watch. He checked the date.

Reaching for the portrait again, tears well in his eyes.

“You always kept me in balance,” he said lovingly.

He stroked the glass as a single drop hit the frame.

“I wish you were still here.”

Placing the portrait back, he reached for the mug and sat down in his spot.

The clock ticked.

He heard the song of a bird.

He took a sip.

Cold.

Oscar sighed. “Of course it is.”

He drank it anyway. The cold liquid slid down his throat in contrast to the warmth he longed for. As he set the mug down, a sigh escaped his lips. Yet, a glimmer of hope remained. Faint, but enough to remind him that tomorrow might be a new start.