Stirring

The smooth styrofoam is comfortable in my hand, warm to the touch with the calming, familiar feel to drinkers of bland coffee, filled about two-thirds of the way to the top. The rim is slightly bent, probably from being stacked too tight in a cardboard sleeve. Steam rises gently and alerts my senses back to the present, curling upward in thin ghostly ribbons before disappearing into the stale air. The smell is weak, more like hot water than anything else, but somehow still comforting.

"Thanks", I utter. My voice comes out softer than I intend. She was just doing her job. I know, I know. No need to read into it. Still, something about being handed a warm drink in a cold room feels like a kindness.

She lifts the carafe and nests it back in the Mr. Coffee behind her. The glass clinks faintly against the metal plate, a small sound that echoes louder than it should in the quiet. The way her hips swivel reminds me of Sandy, long and circular, with the rhythm of a Latin dance instructor, the kind who smiles while counting out loud. For a second I drift there, back to sweaty palms and cheap music and late nights that felt endless. But the pistol on her belt catches the overhead light and brings me back to ground.

The room is bleaker than the last. Green linoleum counters and uninspired grey tiled flooring, each square slightly darker than the last where years of shoes have worn them down. The brown-top imitation walnut table below my hands is covered in rogue ink squibbles and grains of salt from the last guy, or maybe it’s powdered milk. There’s a faint sticky patch near the edge that my sleeve brushes against and I pull away instinctively. The walls at one point were likely white, now creaming themselves into a faded yellowish tint with years of use, like an old photograph left in the sun. If they could talk, would they? I think they’d choose to keep their mouth shut, to be honest. The popcorn ceiling seems to get lower by the hour and reminds me of my stepdad’s basement, the one where he used to chain smoke and watch Cheers reruns until midnight.

I twirl my right index finger through the coffee, around and around like a kid learning to bike on a cul-de-sac, wobbling but never quite falling. Within a few passes it turns numb, the heat sinking deep into my skin until it feels thick and distant. A thin brown ring forms where the coffee laps against the cup, marking each slow rotation. Down the hall a keyring jangles with what must be at least twenty pieces, each one scraping against the next like nervous teeth. Somewhere a door slams shut.

She swivels back towards me and burps. A little burp, quick and sharp, but enough to make me lose my focus. I blink and straighten up. I grin but don’t laugh, though inside I know it’s a little cute, the kind of human slip you don’t expect in places like this.

"Excuse me, we were getting really close, would you please continue?" She says, eyes focusing on my stirring and carefully avoiding my gaze. Her pen hovers just above the pad, waiting.

I don’t think her and I are compatible, sadly. I always like to run a wargame of sorts and play out the next few years in my head. Where we could be living together, what kind of house we’d have, whether she’d leave her shoes by the door or stack them neatly in a closet. I jump ahead even further sometimes, forty years down the line, two old farts laying out on St. George’s Island watching the pelicans skim the water, complaining about the causeway traffic into town and how everything used to be cheaper. I don’t think we’d make it. She seems like the type who’d hate the humidity. Or maybe I am. Hard to tell. She’s a little too chubby for me, too. Not that I’m one to judge, but in my mind’s eye I want to be confident when we get to our cabana, introducing ourselves to the community neighbors, building that mindless rapport that gets you in tight with the new friends with the stocked beach bar and golf cart. Her skin seems soft, but I think a few hours on the Atlantic would torch her. No, this one won’t last.

But this is only our first meeting. Sometimes I’ll give it more time, let things breathe a little. But I like to make a quick distinction and stick to it. Saves everyone the trouble.

"...as I was saying, and thanks for the coffee, I just grew to loathe her. All the consistent questions and nagging, really that’s all there is to it. Oh, and she never wanted to dance with me..."

The words come out smoother now, like they’ve been rehearsed. I stare past her shoulder at a small stain on the wall that looks like the shape of Florida if the tides ate about 10 miles off the coast all around. I continue my confession to the detective, mindlessly explaining why I turned myself in and the night leading up to it. The rain, the shouting, the way the clock on the microwave blinked 12:00 like it always did after a storm. I talk about things that matter and things that don’t, mixing them together until even I can’t tell the difference.

As I speak, I begin to imagine the next forty years again. This time I’m on my own private island, no traffic, no questions, just wind and water and silence. I picture some grand flotsam washing up on my shores, an old boat or a broken plane or maybe just a message in a bottle, something meant to whisk me away for good. Somewhere better. Or at least somewhere quieter.

The coffee has gone still. My finger rests at the edge of the cup, numb and wrinkled. Steam no longer rises.

She keeps writing.