Coffee for Two

Eric M. Crowl

The whistle on the kettle screams out for attention. He can hear it from the shower, but chooses to ignore the shrieks. He has been in the shower since he first put the kettle on the stove, letting the scalding water cascade over his body; it’s turned his skin a bright shade of crimson.
He can see his bed from the shower. He can see the woman and is annoyed the she’s still passed out in his bed, that the screaming kettle hasn’t cause the woman to so much as stir. Then, he becomes panicked briefly, wondering if she succumbed to alcohol poisoning sometime during the night, but then he sees her turn and roll onto her opposing side.
He reaches out for the loofa, but it’s absent. He looks around the shower. There’s a bar of soap and a bottle of two-in-one shampoo and conditioner he hasn’t opened in over a year. That’s all. The shower feels empty to him. He scrubs himself quickly and half-heartedly, not bothering to shampoo. He sees no point.
The woman is still in bed, still asleep.
He turns off the shower and rubs his forehead, fighting back his hangover. He’s suddenly aware of how grimy his teeth feel, but at the same time see’s no point in bothering to brush them.
The kettle is still shrieking. It’s reached a pitch that strikes him as excessive so he makes for the kitchen, wrapping his towel around him as he goes. Some of the blinds in the apartment are still open, but again—he doesn’t care.
He takes the kettle off of the stove and pours it into the French press Ashleigh bought him as an anniversary present. He makes enough for two. A habit, he tells himself, not a hope. He walks to the cabinet, and next to the dishes Ashleigh bought when she found out that he almost exclusively used paper plates, is his favorite coffee mug, next to hers. He pauses, then takes down his and closes the cabinet door with a slam. He gathers a false sense of accomplishment. The rest of the coffee is poured down the drain.
He sits at the small table in the kitchen. She called it a breakfast nook in the morning; her idea of a joke, he guessed. She would chuckle to herself after saying it at least.
He can hear the woman stirring in his bedroom.
The hangover is catching up to him. It feels like someone is playing the drums on the back of his eyes to the beat of his heart.
“Hello?” the woman says.
He chooses not to respond. He just wants the woman to go so he can go back to bed and sleep his hangover off in peace.
The woman comes out with the sheets wrapped around her. Ashleigh either walked through their apartment fully dressed or completely naked, and he was always excited to see which she chose. This woman wearing his sheets is an unwelcome reminder that they need to be washed.
“You couldn’t get dressed?” he asks.
“I didn’t really feel like it,” the woman says, running her hand through her tangled and matted hair. “Is there any extra coffee?”
“No.”
The woman frowns and starts through his cupboards, looking for what he doesn’t know. After a minute or two the woman pulls out a bowl and pours some corn flakes into it.
The woman sits down at the table across from him and starts eating. Then asks with her mouth full: “Do you always walk around naked with your windows open?”
“Usually.”
Ashleigh had impeccable manners. He never realized how much he loved that about her.
“Mind eating with your damn mouth shut?” he asks the woman.
The woman continues to eat, but is careful to keep her mouth closed and is completely silent. Halfway through the bowl she pushes it aside and walks back to his bedroom. After a few minutes she comes out fully dressed. “If you didn’t want me here you could have said something.”
He feels shameful being naked aside from his towel in front of the fully dressed woman.
“I’m sorry,” he stammers, but the woman dismisses him with a flip of her hand and walks out the front door, slamming it behind her.
He sits in silence for a while, unsure of what to do. He finally gets up and walks back into his bedroom. There he finds his cell phone, still in the pants he wore last night, and calls in sick to work. Sitting down on his bed, he pick’s up Ashleigh’s pillow and takes great solace that it still smells like her. He cautiously picks out all of the blonde hairs that belonged to the woman, being careful to leave the brunette strands in place. Once the task is complete he lays down in his bed with the pillow clutched to his chest.