The Aroma of Coffee

When I wake up I know it is going to be a bad day. Are there other ones I ask myself in disgust.
I feel dizzy, my head ready to explode and my chest hurts from smoking too much yesterday.
My bed is big and empty. I cannot remember when was the last time a woman slept next to me.
The fog in my head is getting thicker.
It is raining outside, drizzly, disconsolate. I feel so depressed.
I suppress a rising feeling of nausea and grab the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table. Empty.
My mood descends way below zero.

The dizziness is getting stronger. I slip out of bed and stumble to the bathroom where disorder awaits me.
Just in time I bend over the toilet hole. The stench of stale urine rising out of that dark yellow pit hits me hard in the face. I haven’t flushed in days.
I throw up last evening’s spaghetti and it leaves an acid taste in my mouth. I dab my face with cold water and rinse my mouth.

It is cold and dirty in the kitchen too.
I make some coffee and scuffle to the living room.

Soon the aroma of coffee fills the room but it can’t reduce my bad temper. It is so cold here and I feel abandoned. Coffee is not meant to drink alone.
Why for heaven’s sake did I even take the trouble?

The scent reminds me of her and I don’t need that now.
My mind drifts away to those simple breakfasts with her when the bed was not yet to big or empty and cold.
The hot cups of black coffee were our Sunday morning tradition after the lovemaking and to greet the new day.

While she was dozing after the intense sex I jumped out of bed, plunged down the stairs into the kitchen and brewed a can of delicious and strong coffee.
In the meanwhile she had pushed up the pillows and welcomed me back by lifting up the duvet.
She took it with her when she left me and I never replaced it.

No wonder I have cold legs and feet at night, I think. For a split second I am longing more for the duvet than for her.

A specific memory springs to my mind although just the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. Fucking melancholy does that to people.

On a Sunday morning, so beautiful time should have halted at that precise moment, she asked for sugar. I was a little surprised. She always takes her coffee black.
I remember smiling.
“Sweetie,” I answered, “if you play sugar I will personally add some cream…”
“You are a man with wicked thoughts,” she chuckled and grabbed my cock.

These memories seem like fragments of a past life I never lived. I suddenly get a depressing feeling I’ve aged centuries. That I have wandered through deserts of absolute emptiness. Lost my bearings and myself at the same time.
I realize I have been chasing unreachable shadows while tapping myself on the shoulders. Encouraging myself in a no good life. Sinking in a pool of murky self-pity. Hoping for something that would never happen.
She won’t come back.

I loathe myself and my prominent lethargy and lack of resilience. In my mind, I draw a thick line under this chapter. I decide, starting tomorrow, to be a blank slate again. Alert and open for what comes. I need to look at the sky instead to the ground. Longing for what lies beyond the horizon.

This day, this Sunday, I should use to dispel of the filth in my house and in my life.

I rummage through some audiotapes and decide a piano sonata by Chopin is the only music that can endure this morning.
Chopin is a miracle I think with his twinkling fresh sadness.
I now know that I do not want to cherish my pain. In stead I want to search for blue skies and banish the grey from my life.

Chopin will accompany me.


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