Nervous System

The grinder whirs, pulverizing the coffee beans into a coarse powder. My molars cry out in empathy for those bitter seed pods. Sleeping and waking, my jaw works overtime, compressing and decompressing. It’s 7:55 on a Thursday night, and Tripp isn’t home yet.

“I’ll be home in time for our program,” he said this morning. I’d leaned in for a kiss, blushingly clutching my bathrobe. He works late some nights but never misses an episode of our sitcom.

I tip the bulky grounds into the French press and add hot water straight from the tap. Making tea is a ritual: each varietal merits an interlude with the thermometer to ensure the perfect temperature and brew duration. But coffee is not about art or even taste. It’s survival. If something happened to Tripp, I won’t be able to forgive myself. I can’t rest until he makes it through this door.

Our program starts in five minutes. I let the commercial break serve as a brew timer. The second I hear the cheeky jingle of the sitcom’s intro, I’ll press the plunger and pour out my cup. For now, I allow the song of consumerism to lull me into a stupor.

Except my mind refuses to be soothed. Tripp is everywhere, even in this commercial. It’s selling an action figure aimed at the juvenile audience currently protesting bedtime. Tripp’s an enthusiast, and in my mind’s eye I see him walking into the comic shop between his office and the train station. The bell jingles and even though it’s minutes to closing time, the shop attendant smiles at him. Men of his age are almost always a sure thing: forever seeking a nostalgia trip or the victory of completing a collection. Time escapes him while he’s lost in the sundrenched afternoons of his childhood on the playroom rug. When he finally remembers the time, he hurries to the counter, fumbling with his wallet before rushing home to me, full of apologies and bashful pride at his purchase.

There’s the intro to our program, but the door remains firmly shut. My mood is as black as the roast emptying from the carafe. Maybe the shop attendant is that cute young girl, the one with the turquoise highlights in her hair and the diamond tattooed behind her ear. He’s not thinking of the action figure now. He’s wondering what her tattoo tastes like, or if she makes any noises when his fingers are tangled in her turquoise strands. She turns the shop sign to Closed, because calling it a night a few minutes early doesn’t make a difference on a Thursday. While she’s on her back in the back room, he’s checking out the inventory.

My hand shakes as I guide the mug to my lips. Ripples break the coffee’s surface tension. I swallow greedily and set it on the glass table with a crash. An explosion separates Tripp and his paramour. He jerks his head, the comic book shop lit by the glow of flames from a ruptured gas main down the street. He’s a gentleman, so he shields the girl from the view of the wreckage, hand gripping her thigh firmly, protectively. They don’t approach the front door in their state of undress, but they can feel the heat of the flames from there.

The program’s hit its first commercial break. I mash the remote's channel up and down buttons through the news broadcasts, looking for evidence of this local disaster. I keep my phone nearby too; surely the utilities company will notify me of the issue. Should I turn off the gas? I’d hoped for a hot bath tonight, but safety first, I suppose. There’s nothing on the news, but I wrench the shutoff valve anyway.

But there wouldn’t be anything on the news, would there? This is a gigantic cover-up. The gas main explosion isn’t a tragic error, it’s a cleverly disguised terror attack. Tripp and that comic book jezebel have bags over their heads, and they’re being transported to a safe house or dungeon for conversion to the cause. Maybe I should be grateful Tripp hasn’t come home. If he gets home, it will be his mission to convert me too.

I have to protect myself. I set the door chain and turn off the television and the lights. The duffel bag on the floor swallows toiletries, dark, athletic clothing, and any makeshift weapons I find around the house. Duct tape. The wooden dowel that prevents our bedroom window from sliding open from the outside. The biggest knife in the block.

There’s a scraping sound. A key turns in the lock. The handle rotates by degrees. I kick my go bag under the kitchen island but keep the knife loose in my grip. The door swings open, ricocheting against the chain. A gruff voice barks in suprise. The terrorists.

“What do you want?” I scream. “I’m armed, don’t you dare come in here?”

“What the hell?” the voice says. “Maeve, babe, it’s me. Let me in!”

It’s Tripp. He’s home! He’s late; the sitcom is nearly over. I unfasten the chain but pause with my hand on the doorknob. It sounds like him, but he could be brainwashed. How would I know? I’ll let him in and keep my guard up.

“Where have you been?” I demand. He looks so confused, his brown eyes as soft as a drugstore teddy bear. I catapult myself into his arms and burst into tears.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he murmurs into my hair. “Is that a knife in your belt?” Tripp yanks his hand back from my waist.

“Don’t ever do that again,” I burble through fresh tears. My hands shake as I return the knife to the block and rinse the coffee cup at the sink. I’ll need something stronger if I expect any sleep tonight, so I sweep a valerian tea bag into the mug and attempt to light the burner. It clicks, but nothing catches. The gas is out.

“You missed our show,” I say.

“We’ll catch it on streaming. You’re never going to believe this—” Trip begins.