Pouring Two Cups of Coffee

The coffee maker exhaled a loud hiss of steam announcing its task complete. Its prize of tap water strained through freshly ground beans would be elevated today. More than just a ritual this morning, it would anchor his courage and announce a time to change.

He reached up into the cabinet and pulled down two coffee cups. Stout with dense bottoms and ordained with a witty quote from someone famous, these cups were veterans of many mornings. Over the years, they bore witness to the gentle morning kisses, deep conversations, groggy morning contemplation and feisty arguments. They had seen life, genuine love and true angst in a relationship vying for a final state of steady contentment. It never got there.

Instead, as these two cups could attest, the relationship skirted its way across the vinyl until landing in the runout groove where it turned endlessly to no music whatsoever. Although the record turned, only static played. Physical and emotional affection had cooled like the final sip of coffee would when these cups were eventually placed in the sink. Things had been over for a long time as both knew but neither were willing to say out loud. Until this morning, when he would open it all up over a couple cups of coffee.

Twenty years and a few months housed a relationship that broke high and low along a screeching frequency. Honestly, the highs were never that high and the lows not all that low. There was no adapted screenplay to be derived from the experience. Whatever pinnacle those peaks and valleys reached weren’t the issue but rather it was the consistency of the turns. The constant rocking eventually wore at the relationship’s base before it just went limp and refused to stand any longer. The frequency dissolved to a low static hum of indifference until neither could be moved to be attentive any longer.

For the first time in over a year, he filled both cups. As the steam rose from her cup, a sense of nostalgia summoned a vague feeling of affection. “Acts of Service” had always been his love language and there was a time he was dutiful in this small act of making coffee for two, but a lot of time has lapsed since then. Reality edged its way in front of nostalgia and the mood dissipated with the steam. He wasn’t pouring an act of gentle kindness. He was pouring resolve. He was delivering finality. He was summoning strength to manifest the obvious into spoken word: “It was over.” And this coffee was the armor he’d don to state those words.

With each cup filled just short of the rim, he placed two fingers through the thick, ceramic handles and paused. Lifting these cups started a journey with no return and reality’s weight settled upon him. Two decades invested in a story and he was about to turn the final page. There would be no reconciliation, no talking it over, and no finding a means start over. His conviction renewed for another minute, he spun around with two cups in hand and made his way forward.

She would be upstairs seated in a large leather chair. There was a time when life still existed in their union, he’d make this same exact journey with the same cargo. In those days, they’d compare notes on the upcoming day divvying up chores each would handle until they returned that night. Along the way, those chores became a source of arguments as each stated their case to prove who was the busiest and, thus, least capable. Arguments eventually gave way to silence and silence wedged them into separate parts of the house. It was never about the chores or the million other arguments; it was about being seen. But instead of opening their eyes, they closed them even tighter. When the self-centered resolve eventually relented and they did open their eyes, each had become transparent to the other. Far too long in the dark and they had lost their sight and the desire to do even the smallest selfless act. She no longer waited for him to bring the coffee upstairs anymore. He hadn’t for months.

He turned the corner leading up the stairs when his arm hit the door’s threshold. Coffee sloshed in his left hand and a quarter of it spilled on the carpet.

"Goddamn it,” he muttered to himself.

His first instinct was to just let it lie and move on, but years of conditioning wouldn’t allow it. A coffee stain settling into a carpet installed just a few years ago was a mundane terror of the highest sort in the culture of suburban life. He was about to blow up life as he’d currently known it but would only do so after ensuring the stain didn’t set. He turned back to the kitchen and placed the cups on the counter.

Under the sink, he found a dry washrag. He folded it a couple times upon itself and pressed it into coffee stain with his barefoot. The pause was enough to bring back a sense of doubt.

"What the hell am I doing?" he whispered to no one. Was he really serious about this? Twenty years of marriage. A house. Cars. Grown children. So much at stake and yet nothing at all. There was nothing left to feel. Love and anger had run their course leaving both tanks completely void except for a sense of detached fear that something would be lost if it all ended. With the emotional aspects of the relationship dead, all that remained was an obligation to appearances to serve the judgments of others. And the material stuff, though he had long realized those were the trappings more tied to convincing everyone they were “winning”.

Staring at his foot on the cloth, he allowed himself to linger on the concept for a moment more. The resistance, he realized, wasn’t the “things” and it wasn’t people’s acceptance. It was his deep conditioning into a societal system that used other’s opinions and the “things” to circumvent emotional connection and wield heavy chains around the contractual union of two people. He wasn’t afraid of acknowledging the end of the personal connection. He was afraid of disappointing the system because appearances were all that remained.

“Well, damn it all,” he thought, flipped the rag and pressed it again into the carpet one more time for good measure.

A quick pour to refresh the spilled coffee cup and his resolve returned. No more pauses. No more doubts. Two cups in hand, he navigated the threshold without so much a brush of his sleeve. He ascended the stairs, careful to steady each step to ensure the hot liquid remained within the bounds of its vessel. Along the way he passed a framed picture of their family. Smiles hung like ornaments on each of their faces against a backdrop of autumn coated trees. He passed their bedroom where a king-sized bed remained unmade. They still slept in the same room, the last visage of a married couple, though the space between them was vast and barren. He passed the washer and dryer where clothes that needed folding and clothes that needed drying waited for someone to follow through. He passed black and white pictures of their grown children at an age he regretted not being more in tune with at the time. He arrived at the door.

It was slightly ajar, but open. Placing extra emphasis on maintaining the stasis of the cups, he hooked a toe at door’s edge and dragged it against the pile of carpet. She sat exactly in the place and position he anticipated.

With a crinkled brow and reactionary snark, she asked, "Did you bring me coffee?”

"I did," he stated.

"You didn’t have to do that," she replied with no malice nor tenderness either.

"I know," he stated and then with an unexpectedly broken inhale, he stammered, "I think we need to talk."

She stared back at him as the gravity of what he brought with him up the stairs entered the room. Her eyes started to well, but the tears held waiting for a stronger cue. She had built up years of earthworks on her heart but the defenses crumbled in the final onslaught of reality. It wouldn’t be long before she broke.

In that second, he almost faltered again. He knew he didn’t love her anymore, but she still looked exactly like the woman he fell in love with long ago. She was a beautiful woman and he was transfixed the first time he saw her. He still found her face intoxicating and seeing it start to break into sadness was almost too much. Almost.

He stepped forward and extended the cup of coffee to her. She reached for it with both hands and brought it rest upon her chest, never breaking eye contact with him. He pulled his own cup close to his heart and started:

"I think we both know it’s over."