Coffee at One

The little monitor light flickers. Again, again, again, like the rhythmic beat of Bon Iver which trips through your headphones. You’re tired, it’s late, and you can’t stop thinking about that email you’re fairly sure you forgot to send.

Scratch that. Entirely certain that you did not send.

You sigh, sit, and rub hand over eye as you press the button again. Off and on, like clockwork. Whenever there’s a problem, you turn it off and on again. Wouldn’t it be great if that same principle applied to people? Wouldn’t it be nice if whenever we feel broken we could just push ‘reset’?

Is that what they mean by meditation, sleep, a healthy lifestyle? You make a note to take another look at Headspace again tomorrow. Maybe they’re actually on to something.

The light flickers again, monitor still not booting. For some reason, the old phrase you heard years ago is all you can think of on repeat. Be the reason that the light flickers when you walk into a room. You’re not exactly sure what it means, but it sounds ominous and you enjoy it. What’s that word; mellifluous? The phrase is mellifluous to your ears.

Another sigh. The monochromatic stalemate of knowing what you’re doing is futile falls upon you like a weighted blanket for the mind. There’s no escaping the fact – the monitor is broken.

Unplugging your laptop and standing from the desk, you decide that it doesn’t matter that it’s midnight and you’ve not slept; coffee sounds good. Laptop is thrown haphazardly onto countertop as beans grind to a fine powder. The mechanical churning reverberates through the air and before long, the scent of something dark and smoky fills the small kitchen.

You let the machine do its thing – you’ve never really known how to make anything that couldn’t be created without the push of a button. Even when you worked in that café, you couldn’t make the coffee.

‘What kind of waitress can’t make coffee?’ You can still hear the chef’s jeering. Good-natured but still irritating in the way of a thorn in your side.

‘What kind of chef can’t poach an egg?’ You’d retort. Honestly, you could have left it – you both knew there was nothing malicious in his teasing but it bothered you all the same. You smirk, remembering the roll of his eyes as he shooed you away with a flick of the spatula.

In one hand, you grab the mug; with the other, the laptop. Moving to your favourite corner counter space you flip the lid open, ready to just sit and write.

Write something; anything will do.

It’s been weeks since you’ve gotten anything good to your Editor and she’s beginning to grow antsy. Scraping burning pages together with your hollow fingertips can only stretch so far. The lamp is almost out of oil.

You tilt your head back, letting it rest against the wall as you bring the mug to your lips. And, it’s at that moment you could swear the kitchen comes to life.

It’s dark here, the only light spilling from the open hallway and the moon because the gallery light is broken. Has been for months – you keep swearing you’ll replace it but it’s grown less and less likely with every passing day. But, still, those tinkling moonbeams flutter through the exposed window as though caught on a breeze. It’s dark but it doesn’t feel dark. You’re scared of the dark but you’re not scared right now.

Things look different at night than how they do in the day. The endless mystery of warped shapes and shadows creates a brand new world for you to explore from your perch with your eyes. The kitchen is no longer just a kitchen; the cupboard doors are more than cupboard doors, and the fridge seems unalike a fridge in low light.

You can’t quite explain the feeling that overcomes you; melancholy and wistful but for what, you’re not sure. Perhaps the intricacies of life seem louder in the quiet. Forgotten dreams, pursued hopes, and all the tranquillity of simply being seem screamed from the soul into the void which all looks as it usually does, but completely different as you sit there and drink your coffee.

Dusk dances upon peeling, painted wood. Empty mugs and stacked plates appear as abstract art might in a museum.

You think about it, then. How would the placards read about your life? Would it say ‘Accomplished’ beneath the picture you paint as you sit on the counter, or would it read ‘Procrastinator’? You’re sure of the answer but you sit another moment without making a move, regardless. You want to soak up the quiet, for just a moment longer.

Suddenly, it’s as though flipping the lid of that laptop is more of a symbol than it is a simple movement. It’s a decision. A decision to go on; do something. Is thinking so much about procrastinating productive or just further procrastination?

You decide you don’t want the answer.

You place the mug down, lift the lid, and open your document.

Eyes glaze on impact, the momentum rushing out of you at once. It’s visceral. Unavoidably impactful in all the worst ways.

The sigh which rumbles through you then feels like more than a sigh. Is this it? You wonder. Is the lamp finally out of oil?

It’s then you realise, you can’t force a thing to full power. At what point do you stop? When is admitting defeat no longer a defeat but the ultimate strength? The seconds pass like hours and it’s as if you’re caught in a hurricane. Around and around it turns and churns until you’re certain you’re no longer in Kansas.

It’s hopeless, this feeling. It’s like the world is ending and for some inexplicable reason, it doesn’t even feel like an overstatement to say that. It’s like you’ve taken a few hundred steps backwards and you’re a floundering infant uncertain of its next move. You’re the novice you were before, only this time your imposter syndrome is prominent because it feels like you’ve wasted the years you never earned to begin with.

You pause – a simple reprieve in the mayhem which was spiralling around you only moments ago. Why not take a few hundred steps back, then?

With newfound resolve you clutch the laptop a little tighter, heading to the search bar and typing in the address your fingers know on instinct but you couldn’t remember you even knew only seconds before. Link after link you click away until you find the page you need. And, there:

You log in –

No.

Try again?

Damn. What was your pet’s name in 2009? Not that? Try again.

You have reached the maximum number of attempts, please reset your password or try again later.

An impatient sound escapes you and you click the mocking underlined phrase feeling embroiled in a rush. Your body is no longer your own; it’s her’s. It’s the little girl who made aliases on this website and posted stories, prompts, and inspiration. It’s she who stayed up late into the night whilst her parents thought her asleep and told tales of mythic creatures and historically inaccurate events. You’re once more that child who played adult and pretended she was a proofreader and somehow got real authors to send her their work to beta read.

Her enthusiasm for the craft lights like lightning in your veins and you’re resetting the password in record speed. The same one you always use. Now your grown-up life and childhood have merged. You’re at a crossroads in time, and you look up at the kitchen which looks like art with a secret smile that knows your words were there all along.

You walk through your old account like a telepath explores a mind. Everywhere you look you’re blasted with the excitement of yesterday. This is not like looking through glass – it is here with you in the present.

A lazy smile is playing on your lips as you hide the tab and look back at your manuscript.

Maybe knowing when to quit is the ultimate strength, sometimes. Letting go and starting fresh is scary, after all. You click the X in the top right and don’t look back.

Head still filled with the dreams of your younger self, you open a new document and glance at the time; 1am, a perfect time for coffee.