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She awoke to discomfort and dread.
She didn't like spending the night at his place. The single bed that
doubled as his sofa wasn't big enough for two people who had passed the
stage of sleeping in each other's arms. She hadn't wanted to stay over, but
his car had blocked hers into the apartment building's tiny parking lot and
he had fallen asleep without asking if she wanted to go home.
The smell of coffee filled the studio apartment, making her nauseous. She
didn't like coffee, but since he still hadn't bought her any tea bags she
drank coffee along with him. He always made a full pot in an old electric
percolator that scorched everything. They would sit in straight-backed
chairs and drink the coffee at a table he had made himself from old boards,
some of which had once been painted blue.
She sat at the table that morning staring into the mug he had designated as
hers. She sprinkled a teaspoonful of powdered non-dairy creamer into the
coffee and watched the crystals explode into tiny pale swirls. It looked
like one of the canvases that covered almost every inch of space in his
apartment. She glanced at one of them and thought, as she had almost every
day of her life, that someday she would like to try painting. Then she
looked back into the mug and began stirring slowly until all the creamy
swirls had blended together with the black coffee to create a uniform khaki
color.
"Why so quiet?" he said.
She shrugged. She was always quiet in the morning, not just when she stayed
with him. Not just because she did not like his bed and his coffee.
"You're not depressed, are you?" he said, taking her hand.
She looked up at him with a shallow smile and shook her head.
"That's good," he said. "I don't like my girl to be unhappy." He patted her
hand, then withdrew his own and picked up his coffee.
"What do you want to do today?" he said.
"Aren't you going to pick up your kids?"
"Not until later," he said. "I figured we could go to the museum or
something." He brought his mug down on the table top with a decisive rap.
She did not want to go to the museum. It meant standing for hours with the
crowds of people who went there on Sundays. It meant even more pain than
she was already feeling in her cramped limbs. It meant listening to him
address each detail of every work of art they encountered. It wasn't what
she wanted.
She wanted to be alone in a quiet place where her thoughts could flow
without interruption. She wanted to do whatever she felt like doing as she
felt like doing it. She wanted to stretch out her arms and legs that ached
so badly from sleeping in his uncomfortable bed. She wanted a cup of tea.
She wanted to go home.
"The museum sounds fine," she said.
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