Black Coffee

Tink, tink, tink.

The dark liquid dripped from the machine into the glass pot. A few splotches already coated the bottom in a thin layer speckled with grounds. The murky liquid bled into the darkness that engulfed the kitchen. 

“Margie, come to bed.”

“What time is it?” She didn’t turn from the pot in front of her.

“It’s three in the morning, sweetie. Come to bed.” 

Creak, creak, creak.

He stopped just behind her. Margie turned with a sigh, leaning against the counter. He dipped his chin to look at her, dark brows furrowed, the corners of his mouth turned down.

His face was cleanly shaven, dark hair ruffled from sleep, lashes fluttering making it clear he would like to return to being so.

He wore a navy blue robe on top of checkered cotton pants. She was in one of his t-shirts that fell just above her knees. It was the same thing she had worn yesterday. And the day before.

She met his weary gaze with a blank stare.

“Did you take your medication?”

She nodded.

Drip, drip, drip.

“Come to bed,” he put an arm around her shoulder, tugging her away from the counter. 

She craned her neck to watch the black drip from the machine into the glass as he pulled her out of the dark kitchen and into the hallway where light seeped in from the top of the stairs.

Plink, plink, plink.

“I need to turn off the coffee machine,” she mumbled, twisting slightly in his grasp to keep it in her field of vision. Eventually, it was swallowed up, reduced to the flickering lights along the control panel.

“We’ll drink it in the morning. Just come to bed, love,” he spoke softly.

Hands pressed on each of her shoulders as he walked behind her, gently pushing her up the stairs. Margie took the steps one at a time, allowing his touch to be the force that kept her moving up, up, up the stairs, and into the yellow lamplight of their bedroom.

“And how does that make you feel?”

“What?” Margie blinked, shifting in the plastic chair.

“How does that make you feel?” Her therapist repeated, looking up from her notepad and peering at her over wire-rimmed glasses, “When Nicholas does not listen?”

“Oh, um, I don’t know,” Margie shrugged, “I don’t feel anything about it, I guess.”

Numb. Margie always felt numb. The cocktail of pharmaceuticals her psychiatrist had put her on made sure of that.

“You don’t feel anything?” Her therapist repeated, eyebrows raised, pen frozen, voice catching and hitching in places that let Margie know she needed to try again.

Margie may not have felt in months but she could still catch on to how others did. She wished there was a pill to take that away.

She sighed, “I feel disrespected. I feel small and weak. I feel ignored and unseen.”

“Mmmm,” her therapist hummed, turning her attention back to the yellow legal pad propped on her knee, clicking the end of her pen before scribbling something down.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“How’s the writing going?” Nicholas leaned against the entryway of the living room.

Margie shrugged, propping herself up on her elbows, while she sprawled on the red velour couch. She twirled the ring on her left hand, the prongs from the diamond catching her pinky and middle finger with each revolution.

Plink, plink, plink. 

It was raining, and the living room had the most windows. Margie liked the rain. She liked the way it distorted the world around her. She liked when the droplets rested upon the glass and dripped down leaving iridescent tracks that warped the images beyond. She liked the way the world smelled afterward, damp and green. She liked the way it sounded against the window.

Click.

She hissed, throwing her hand up to her forehead to shade her eyes as light flooded the room.

“It’s not good for you to sit in the dark, Margie.”

She released a long breath, before lowering her fingers to the keyboard. 

Clack, clack, clack.

The cushions shifted beneath her hips as Nicholas sat on the edge of the couch.

“Can I read some of it?”

“I don’t think so,” Margie said simply, her eyes remaining on the black and white blue light document before her.

“You haven’t let me read any of your work in months.”

“I haven’t let anyone read my work in months.” Her editor was not very happy about that fact.

“I know.” His tone was weary and soft. Aching. 

Margie had not felt sad in months, but memories of the sensation whispered and curled around her mind. She sighed, pushing herself up, closing the laptop, and setting it on the coffee table in front of them.

“You wouldn’t like it.” She seated herself beside him.

“How do you know I wouldn’t like it?” He brought a hand up to cup her cheek, turning her face towards him.

“I just do.” She sat perfectly still. Not leaning into his touch but not pulling away either.

His mouth turned down. His soft brown eyes crinkled at the corner.

“What’s going on up there?” He rubbed his pointer finger against her temple.

“You wouldn’t like it.”

“I just want to know.”

“No you don’t,” she shook his hand from her face and stood from the couch, walking down the hallway and up the stairs toward the bedroom.

Creak, creak, creak.

She used to tell him when he would ask. A few months ago she would have answered, told him what was happening in the crevices of her mind that had just begun to fog over and rot and decay.

But he would always try to patch it up. As soon as she closed her mouth after spilling her guts, he would throw a cloth over it and try to clean it all up. Try to make it go away. But it didn’t go away. Nobody could take it away from her. Nobody could logic her out of this. No matter how she explained it to him, Nicholas would not stop trying to stitch up every problem she laid bare before him. No matter how many times she told him, he could not understand that the rot was coming from deep within. Throwing paint over the visible pieces did not fix the problem below. It needed to be carved out from the root.

She collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to pull down the comforter, and fell into sweet oblivion.

“Sweetie, wake up.”

“What time is it?” Margie mumbled, not opening her eyes.

“It’s two in the afternoon. You need to take your medication.”

She really didn’t. What did it matter if she was numb to the world through some pill-induced concoction or the unconscious state of sleep?

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” She still did not open her eyes.

“I decided to work from home today.”

The rush of cold air bit into the skin of her upper body as the warmth of the comforter was pulled away. Warm, calloused flesh pressed against her palm. There was a gentle tug, and she allowed herself to be pulled into a seated position. Her eyelids fluttered open.

“Your hands are freezing,” he remarked.

She blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust to the sudden onslaught of sunlight that poured through the window.

“I just want to sleep,” she said softly. For some reason, she wanted to stay in bed and be held. To be tucked against something warm and safe and solid that would chase off the chill and rot, while being wrapped in the soft, plush burgundy duvet. A ship adrift and tossed around in this sea, she would give anything to be docked in a harbor.

“Come take your medication.”

That yearning for softness shattered. She ripped the comforter off her legs and wrenched her hand from his grasp. Lurching up from the bed, she stormed across the carpeted room and into the tiled bathroom. She shivered as her feet adjusted to the cold beneath them, trying to hide the way her head swam from the sudden movement.

“Margie-” Nicholas stumbled into the doorway, flicking on the bathroom light.

The orange plastic rattled as she snatched one of the bottles off the corner of the spotless white porcelain sink. 

Staring him dead in the eye, she pressed down on the white cap, feeling it release beneath her palm. She poured two white pills into her hand without interrupting her glare. Shoving her palm against her mouth, they dropped down onto her tongue. Whirling around she shoved her head under the faucet, drinking straight from the tap.

She repeated the process with the four other bottles that were scattered along the sink's edge. Once she had choked down the assortment of mind-numbing tablets, she turned back to Nicholas standing in the doorway looking at her, face contorted in a way she was all too familiar with. 

Dragging the back of her hand her hand across her lips, she brushed past him, walking across the carpeted space, back towards the bed. 

It was perfectly made on the right side, the comforter tucked in tightly beneath the mattress, the pillows stacked in an order Margie had decided on years ago. The other side had rustled sheets. The duvet was scrunched up at the end of the bed. One pillow remained while the other two lay discarded beside the oak frame.

She dropped back onto the mattress, not bothering to pull the comforter back over herself. Draping an arm over her eyes, she allowed the haziness that always followed the monotonous ritual to wash over her and pull her under.

“And how does that make you feel?” Her therapist asked, scribbling something down on the yellow legal pad that sat perched on her crossed legs.

Margie shrugged, “I don’t know.”

Her therapist paused, looking up from her notes, gazing at Margie over the wire rim of her glasses.

Margie sighed.

“Tired. It makes me feel so tired.”

Honk, honk, honk.

Margie had not been to the city in months. Nicholas thought it would be good for them to go and see the Christmas lights. Every year she had gone to the lighting ceremony, whether that was with Nicholas or friends or family. They made a whole day around it full of shopping and restaurants and exploring the Christmas market that opened.

She hadn’t asked to go this year. The lights had been on for two weeks. Being here was like trying to stick a foot into a sock that was three sizes too small.

Shu, shu, shu.

Her feet stuttered to a stop in front of a storefront that had her favorite soup. She inhaled the familiar scent of yeast and broth that wafted from the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?” Nicholas paused next to her.

She nodded, her eyes wandering over the green sign with the letters etched in gold. She peered through the window and saw customers chatting and laughing with one another. A worker behind the counter playfully shoved another before breaking into a smile. The tables were full of conversations and light and warmth. 

Ding, ding, ding.

Margie shivered as a gust of winter wind brushed over her cheek.

“Let’s get you something to eat.”

“Are you going to eat?” She turned to face him. 

“I ate before we left, but I’ll get a soda or something.”

“Then I don’t need anything.”

“Margie, you haven’t eaten all day,” she opened her mouth but he cut her off before she could speak, “and don’t try to argue because I know it’s true. You need food. I will get something to drink and you eat something.”

“I said I don’t need anything. I think I would know what I need, Nicholas,” she turned on her heel, continuing their walk down the sidewalk.

A slight tug had her stumbling back towards him.

“Actually, I really don’t think you do. I don’t think you know what you need because you don’t seem to care what you need. You need to eat,” he spoke with impatience, holding her forearm firmly, “I don’t understand why you can't eat if I’m not.”

She almost relished the way his words bit into her. It had been so long since he had been anything but soft and gentle towards her. A grey sponge for the glass ballerina to rest upon.

His grasp was gentle enough that she could not feel it through the layers she wore to shield her body from the cold, but tight enough to halt her in her tracks. She probably wouldn’t have worn a coat, let alone an extra sweater, a hat, mittens, and a scarf, if Nicholas had not insisted.

She might have been numb to the world, but she was not numb to the elements. The cold bite against her skin was a welcomed shock. It was a reminder that she was alive, that she could feel something, even if the range was limited.

“You don’t have to understand,” and for the first time in months, she felt heat prickle behind her eyes, “you don’t have to understand why I do the things I do. You don’t have to understand why I think what I think. You don’t have to understand why I feel or don’t feel what I feel. You don’t have to understand it for it to be real.”

“Margie, I am trying to pull you out of this. I thought you would like coming here today and-”

“Stop.”

“Stop?”

“Stop trying to just shove me back into my old life and expecting me to shrug it on and have it still fit. Stop.”

Turning on her heel, she continued on down the sidewalk.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

She ripped her hat from her head, losing it to the snow behind her. She tugged the wet, humid mittens off her hands shoving them into the pocket of her coat. She pulled the scarf from her neck allowing the wind to take it from her grasp.

She crossed her arms over the puffy chest of her coat and sucked in a deep breath of the bitter icy wind letting it tear through her airways, making her throat feel raw and coppery. She let the wind whip her hair, the falling snow slash at her cheeks. She let her nose run and her ears burn.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

She walked staring off into the distance, her mind quiet. Not in a peaceful way. If anything it was disconcerting how blank it felt. The world proceeded on around her.

Plink, plink, plink.

“Come to bed, love.”

“No.”

“No?”

He leaned against the entryway, the light from the hallway upstairs seeping down to silhouette his body. 

“No, I don’t want to come to bed. I’m not tired.” 

Her gaze remained fixed on the rich liquid that slipped through the grounds, condensing in the space between the machine and pot, before falling down the chasm in the center of the glass before…

Plip.

He pursed his lips nodding, tilting his head so it rested against the paneling. He wore his blue robe and checkered cotton pants. She wore a t-shirt of his that fell just above her knees. It was the same thing she had been wearing yesterday.

She turned and met his stare, her head tilted up slightly, body shrouded and cloaked in the early morning darkness.

“Do you want coffee?”

Drip, drip, drip.

“Yeah,” he nodded again, pushing off his spot on the wall and stepping into the kitchen. He crossed the room and came to lean against the counter beside her, “Yeah, I’ll have some coffee.”

She nodded and turned to the cabinets, looping one finger around the handle above the coffee pot and tugging lightly. She stood on her toes on her toes to pull down two coffee mugs, one pink and white striped, the other covered in cartoon dogs.

Clink, clink.

Margie set the cups in front of the coffee pot.

There was a white light that flooded the kitchen for a moment, and then the dark haze returned. 

Thump. 

A bottle of French vanilla creamer was set beside the cups. Arms came around her shoulders, meeting at her sternum. Margie dropped her head back against Nicholas’ chest. His chin came to rest on the crown of her head.

Beep, beep, beep.

The arms dropped away, and Margie leaned forward to take the pot from the machine. She filled both cups, pouring creamer into one and handing it to Nicholas. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead as he took it from her. She grabbed her own cup, allowing the heat from the dark liquid to seep through the ceramic and warm her hands. 

She took a sip, the steaming liquid scalding her taste buds and singing her throat. She pushed off the counter and walked to the kitchen table. Nicholas’ feet softly padded behind her.

Errrrr.

She sat in her chair.

Shush.

Nicholas sat in the chair across from her.

Margie's forearms rested on the table, hands encircling her coffee cup. In the dark she could not make out his features, but years of gazing upon his face filled in the spots the darkness shrouded.

His elbows rested on the wood, coffee cup held just below his chin.

Margie sighed and took a sip.

“What time is it?” She asked.

He took a sip from his own cup and swallowed before answering.

“Three in the morning.”

“Mmmm,” she hummed, nodding, before she took another sip. He did as well.

They sat at the table and sipped their coffee until dawn pierced the early morning dark.