The Moment Before The Knock

He remembered her mostly in the mornings. Sometimes it was a bar of sunlight that cut through the morning dust and hit his face as he stirred to wake, an uncreased pillow beside him. Sometimes it was the shrunken bar of her soap that still held its space in the shower rack. He stared at it as the water washed away the night. Sometimes it was the ping of toast popping and falling on the bench; he rarely ate toast anymore.

Her perfume still hung in the air of the apartment; it was in the towels, the cushions that she had rested her head on. He couldn’t name the perfume, but he knew it was hers. And he knew it would always remind him.

But mostly, it was the smell of coffee that reminded him of her. Not just any coffee. It was never in a café, not even in the café they used to spend far too much of their day. He still drank a late-morning coffee on the terrace, but it didn’t remind him of her.

It was only ever that first coffee of the morning that reminded him of her.

Sometimes he would sit in the café and imagine her. Not beside him; that would be too easy. Sometimes he imagined her walking along the street, stopping in front of the café, seeing him, smiling, and asking if she could sit down. It was how they had shared their first coffee, and the memory always made him smile.

But it was only ever that first coffee of the morning that really captured her.

That time they had shared a table and sipped their first coffee together, that was clear. Her hair had been a mess; she constantly pushed it from her eyes. Her eyes were rimmed with the makeup of a night now passed. She had asked for a cigarette, and he had asked her name. She ordered her coffee black, and he ordered a second coffee, with a dash.

The morning coffee—that was the one. The real one. The one they shared every morning in the apartment.

After that first coffee, she entered his life. It was not planned. It was not discussed. It was only later, much later, that it was dissected. By then it was too late; her bags were on his apartment doorstep, and she was in his life. Coffee had been the start, the excuse, but it was the words that mostly mattered.

In the kitchen, his hair still wet from the shower, he placed the coffee pot on the stove. The first coffee of the day—now that was really something.

To fit a whole life into a couple of bags had impressed him. His apartment was full of his past: books, records, paintings, photos, and old letters. This was his story. But not hers. Two bags, stuffed with clothes, a couple of creased paperbacks, crushed cigarette packets, and a worn collection of makeup. She travelled light.

The coffee pot bubbled, its sound accompanied by the aroma of the ground beans. He missed her arrival in the kitchen at the right moment.

The days of sitting on café terraces passed when the snow arrived. The city knew how to shrug off the snow, but neither of them did. They retreated to the apartment more and more and found comfort there. She added books to the bookshelf—books he didn’t know. He read them. She flicked through his music. The apartment was rarely silent.

Out of habit, he set out two cups and poured the coffee. He knew it was pointless, but there was always enough coffee for two cups.

They ventured out in the afternoons; the mornings were selfishly guarded. If it were a market day, they gathered supplies. If the post delivered a cheque, they spoiled themselves with a cheap dinner, maybe a bouillon. If the work was good and the cheque was large, they met friends and shared their bounty.

He sat at the table by the window, the city below. The coffee cups steamed the glass. It looked like a city in fog.

The friends were her friends; she had known the city longer than him. Mostly it didn’t matter, but sometimes it did. It did in ways that made him resent the city, her friends, and her. It was her friends he resented most of all. He loved the city. He thought he loved her.

He took a lump of sugar and dropped it into the blackness. Looking out through the steam-covered window, he stirred until it dissolved.

He looked down the hallway, past the kitchen and the bedroom, to the front door. Slumped to the side were her bags. She had arrived with two; now there were three. In a moment, the door would swing open and the bags would be gone. The other, he would collect.

He took a sip of the coffee. It was hot. He could feel the tiny grounds in his mouth, on his teeth. The bitterness, disguised by the sugar.

He knew it wasn’t her fault. It couldn’t be. It had happened before; it always happened. He told himself that he gave too much, but he knew he gave the wrong things, never what counted. Now his kitchen was empty, and there was no need for a second cup, but he had poured it anyway.

Her cup sat untouched on the table, the steam no longer rising. Already it was starting to smell stale.

He heard the door downstairs open and slam shut. Footsteps on the staircase, ever closer. Six floors were a lot to climb. Soon there would be a knock. The bags would be gone, and she would be gone from his life. His day would roll on. Tomorrow morning, he would wake and make coffee again, and it would remind him of her.

There was a knock at the door. It would be him. He would take the bags away, and that would be that. For a moment, he hesitated and wondered if he should offer him a coffee.