By: Abigail Ramsey
Every morning is just the same. The alarm blares, creating uncomfortable echoes in my eardrums. I become hyper aware of how dry my mouth is from the night before, yet I still hit the snooze button seven times. I finally roll out of bed because the urge to piss is overwhelming. Before tucking my phone in my sweatpants, I decide to check the time – 6:08 am.
I make my way through the maze of scratchy carpet, dirty clothes, and shoes over to the bathroom. My feet touch the frozen tile floor of the restroom causing my entire body to tense up. I turn on the light, which sends a sharp pain to the back of my eyes. I squint and get dizzy, like a bomb has just hit me, but I manage to find the toilet seat and crack it open. I press my eyes shut while they adjust to horribly bright light. After what felt like a lifetime spent over the toilet, I finish up and find my way out of the frozen bathroom. I step back onto the scratchy carpet that spreads from the living room to the kitchen. The lights are all off, and my eyes still sting from the light in the bathroom, not allowing me to adjust to the black abyss ahead of me. Despite my carefully calculated steps, I still trip over the shoes I took off in the middle of the floor when I got home late last night. I knew I should have taken them off somewhere else, but I was too tired and drunk to listen to my rational side.
I finally make it into the kitchen with even more frozen tile. I flick the switch on the wall to my right; the lights turn on, but they are oddly dim as one of them flickers. Everything in this apartment seems to be wearing away. The sound of the refrigerator whirs in the background. The faucet releases one drip of water every two seconds like an ancient torture device. The paint on the wall may have been a bright white back in the day. Now it is just a cringe-worthy yellow, as if a layer of smoke has rested itself on every inch of the wall. What would it be like to have a gorgeous apartment, one in which I wouldn’t be afraid to invite other people over? I make my way to the counter with the tile that is grasping for its life on the grout that has forgotten its purpose. I reach for the coffee beans, and instantly the fog that was looming over me seems to lift from my mind. They say people feel that way in the company of someone they love, but I have never encountered someone who does that. Only coffee. I pour the beans into the grinder. I no longer needed to measure anymore because I have memorized the accidental line in the grinder that happens to create a perfect, strong, rich cup of coffee. It’s an art form really; if there is one thing I am good at, it’s making a cup of coffee. I walk away as the automatic grinder cracks through the beans, sending the rich aroma throughout the kitchen. In that moment, mornings do not seem to be so rough.
I grab the carafe and head for the ancient torture device of a sink to fill up the pot with four cups of water. I rest my hand on the counter as the water flows, but in my drowsiness my hand slips on the broken tiles. Three shards of a cobalt blue tile clink towards the bottom of the sink. I quickly turn off the water, collect the tiles, and follow a small pool of dark red blood on the edge of the sink. Not amused, I pull the palm of my hand up to eye level to see a steady flow of blood pooling right beneath my thumb. So much for mornings not being rough, I thought. I grab the closest dish towel and tightly wrap it around my hand. I think back to when I last washed towels, but I fail to remember when the last time was– two weeks at least.
More frustrated than ever, I return to the one thing that can makes me happy. I switch off the grinder and pour the grounds into the patient filter. It sounds like sand going through an hourglass, counting down the seconds until I get to hold perfection in my hands. I press the start button waiting for the first hiss of the water heating up. But something’s wrong. Panic ensues. Not even lights are flashing. I fumble to check the power cord – plugged in. The fog bears down on my mind again. I pinch the bridge of my nose between my eyes. Don’t start crying over a cup of coffee, I say to myself. I press the start button one more time while praying to the god I don’t believe exists. Still nothing. In a fit of rage and fear of abandonment I began hitting the coffee maker, forgetting the sting of the cut on my hand – flesh and dish towel clapping against cheap plastic – but still no response. With my hands perched on the countertop and a deep sigh, I accept defeat.
I move out of the kitchen, tripping on the same pair of shoes as before. Without thinking, I pick up one of the shoes and hurl it further into the black abyss of the living room. There is a thud as it hits the hollowed wall across the room. I move towards my bedroom, pulling my phone out of my sweatpants pocket. The dish towel around my hand causes me to fumble around trying to put in the passcode. I go to messages and begin tapping away a convincing text message to my boss.
“I won’t be able to make it in today. Came down with something over the weekend. Plan to make a doctor’s trip. Hopefully see you tomorrow.”
I look it over real fast, proud of myself, and hit send – 6:20 am. I turn my phone off, fold the blankets back in bed, and bury myself underneath. The blankets brush against my arms and bare feet. My head hits the pillow like a brick with the realization it’s only Monday. Within seconds I feel my eyelids becoming heavy as if elephants are laying on them. I drift back to sleep to dream about how an elephant might feel with its rough skin being enveloped in blankets.
