snippets

Interspersed with fiction and reality, my thoughts having fluttered in the space between waking up and breakfast.

Fiction.

I wake up to the smell of brewing coffee downstairs.

It's his last pot before he leaves, and I know he wouldn't want to wake me up just yet.And as I tie in a bow the ribbon of my robe, I know I would miss that smell; it's useless brewing a pot of coffee just for one person.

I started to go down the stairs to the small living/dining room, silently, to surprise me. The suitcases stand near the door, neatly packed, all ready to leave. And on top of the small coffee table was a letter addressed to me, my name printed with his steady handwriting. Had he had it his way, he would've left without even saying goodbye, leaving me with just a note and a cup of coffee.

He was never good with farewells; I'd be usually the one who'd be saying goodbye whenever we attended some party or whatnot. He once remarked that he sometimes finds goodbyes were cruel, as if you'd never see that person again; he liked "see you" better.

I saw him sitting at the small dining table, facing the small patch of unpaved earth overran with small plants and weeds that we liked to call a garden. He was sipping coffee--it was one of the milder blends that I preferred, not his usual black.

"Morning," I whispered in his ear. "Getting from my coffee again?"
"Hey, after this I won't be brewing you coffee for a year, or until I come back."
"Who said I was complaining?"

I managed a weak smile and went to get my own cup. It's only a year, I remind myself. Only a year. I returned to the dining table just to watch him finish his coffee; breakfast just later on the plane. Then the customary goodbyes--or rather, see yous, before he loaded his luggage and boarded the cab.

It's better this way, I try to convince myself.

And after the cab drove away, I went back inside and drained the remnants of the coffee into the sink. I washed the pot, and packed it inside the box. Shame really, it was a pretty new coffeemaker, makes just enough coffee for two.

I'll be sticking to instant until he returns.

Fact

I woke up to sunlight streaming through my bedroom windows. It's another day of supposed rest; I'll be going back to school tomorrow. And today, there's nothing but me and an empty sheet waiting to be filled with random musings.

There's still no certain "he" in my story, no scent of coffee to wake me up. But there's also no pain of leaving, no pain of separation. Simply because there's no pain to speak of.

Only a hollow feeling; and I am reminded of what a wise writer once left in my sig sheet.

Live. Write. Live.