Opposites Attract

I looked into his eyes. He seemed to try to make me remember. His eyes producing an aura of contempt. When I woke up, it was late morning. I've been having this dream lately. He never tried to speak or do anything. I got dressed and headed to town. I went to my favorite coffee shop. My morning routines the same. A coffee shop in the mall, a Coffee shop in town. I would usually get it to go. I kept to myself, reading the news on my phone. I felt clumsy. I never dropped a cup of warm coffee though it was always boiling. I wondered when will the first time it will happen. I looked on-line to order cardboard sleeves for hot beverages, but that will take time.

I hope I don't drop anything by then. To be specific, buying tea is always hotter because ( I presume) it's only hot water, no milk. In French: " Elle boire thé sans lait sans sucre ". She brushed some hair out of her eyes. Averting his gaze. She felt guilty. He never fit with her friends. She could tell his efforts were genuine. When together alone the atmosphere anxious. From her entrance straight to bed. His body adorable and fit. His skin taught. I liked to address in a matter of fact tone. To introduce him as a object. Our circumstances of how we met were quiet extraordinary. I knew his brother forever.

I suppose I never noticed his younger brother. Now, he's all grown up. A man." Maybe you shouldn't enter a relationship", she heard Meg say, " If all your looking for is pleasure, it ain't worth it I tell ya". Beck replied:" You mean I'm missing out. Who knew going to nightclubs could be so profound?". Beck has was always fed up with Meg's stories. This club house , this guy and this outfit. Beck had no plan on getting married, but it seemed Meg didn't either. Their world's couldn't be more apart. Beck maintained a steady life, while Meg often enjoyed traveling. Then, when Meg was back, they would go over the pictures and Meg would tell her all about it. Exotic places like Thailand, Philippine's and Cambodia. Beck has never traveled on her own. She never took part in family conversations, excusing herself. Life seemed to be a private thing. Beck felt like she played things safe. She wasn't **dramatic**. She couldn't remember the last time she cried. Not cry alone, cry with a actual human. She envied Meg at times, how she would describe a remark or tip by her parents. Her conversations, observed from the side, were consistently purposeful. Her smiles, appearing periodically, were a sign that she understood and was part of a secret. If I would write a spy book, Beck thought, all I've got to do is decipher Meg's thoughts. They would lead to somewhere interesting. Something beyond the here and now. When they were kids they shared a kiss. It was Beck's idea.

Meg was wearing pj's and they were at her. The lights off, only one lamp on. They did it all the time. they could talk for hours. this kiss was special. Beck doubted Meg remembered it. Her lips were soft. With a cherry flavor. Their tongues touching for a moment. To Beck it was a secret, a sweet memory to lean on during harsh times. The weather outside was rainy. Beck put on a jacket and walked her dog. " skippy, what if humans lived for 100, 150 years? " , she said to her dog , " I'm barely in my 40's ". she wasn't sure that could be a good thing. For instance, her mother. There were times they didn't talk all that much, and she stayed clear. But during some periods it was unbearable. Maybe people won't go to wars anymore. If they realize how long and precious life is. Maybe just the rich will live that long. Better take it one day at a time. Her dog seemed minding his own business. " Come on , do your thing ". When the weather will be better, she thought, I can take skippy and travel for a night. Maybe camp in the woods nearby.

It was sunny. Beck hauled the tent over the top of her car. She ushered Skippy in the car. 1 hour said the phone. They detoured off the road. The camp site hummed with crickets. She made sure to open the tent. The walls had screens to keep the bad bugs out. She lit a gas burner for some hot and steamy coffee. She pulled out a bowl and filled it with clean and fresh dog food. another bowl for water. She texted her mother: " here I am."

She read the short story in front of her:

The Ritual of the Blue Flame

The hiss of the camping stove was the only sound in the room, a sharp, metallic whistle that cut through the silence of a day with no work. I adjusted the flame until it was a steady, focused cone of neon blue. In the unit, we called this the "quiet time"—those few minutes between the chaos of the march and the bitterness of the watch.

I filled the Finjan, the water reaching just below the scorched handle. I waited. You never rush the water. Rushing is for amateurs. I caught a whiff of my own cologne—deep, woody, cedar—mixing with the smell of cold metal and butane. It felt grounded. Solid.

Just as the first tiny bubbles began to dance at the bottom, I hit it with the coffee. Three heaping spoons of dark, fine-grained dust. Then the sugar. I stirred slowly, watching the vortex turn from clear to a deep, impenetrable black.

Then came the watch.

In the army, you learn to read the coffee like a scout reads a trail. It started to heave, the dark foam climbing the sides of the pot like a rising tide. I pulled it back just as it reached the silver rim. Once. Twice. The third time, the foam was thick and velvety.

I took it off the flame and gave the pot a sharp, decisive tap against the table. Clack. The sound of the "mud" settling. I added a single drop of cold water—the shock that brings clarity.

As the grounds sank to the bottom, I thought of my life. It was like that foam—always rising, always threatening to spill over, always changing. MY hear was the one holding the handle, trying to time the boiling point, trying to keep it from making a mess of everything.

I poured the coffee into a small glass. It was hot, dark, and perfectly still. For a second, everything was in its place. The sofa didn’t creak, the room smelled of cedar and roasted beans, and the "ping-pong" in my head finally stopped.

I took a sip. It tasted like home, and it tasted like leaving.