Because of the inhibition of serotonin and norepinephrin reuptake currently imposed upon your system (dutifully taken by you at approximately 9:18 yesterday morning), you’re awake. And you have been awake for approximately two hours.
Which means you initially awoke at 3:18am which you try not to think about, but since you’re writing about it, it’s impossible not to.
You laid in bed for approximately half an hour hoping, wishing, praying and finally pleading for sleep to turn back and take you with it so you could go back to dreaming about suffocation, mutant mongoose hordes (you wish you were making that up) and losing your beloved rabbit companion in the wilds of Seattle.
Which is precisely when you decided to get up.
You don’t think you made too much noise uncovering your sweatpants or pulling your sweatshirt from the pile–okay, lumpy scattering hiding the floor–of dirty laundry. And he only woke up briefly when the lighter fell out of your pocket and pinballed against the trunk, the floor, so you figure you’re okay. (He has a threat-analyzing window of about thirty seconds. If he doesn’t detect a threat, he falls right back asleep. Bastard.)
So now you’re shuffling through frozen packages of fake meat and real vegetables and a container of leftover strawberry daquari wondering why, why, why in all the wide worlds you decided against buying that bag of beans at Tully’s when you were there on Thursday. It fulfilled two of your three requirements for coffee and, honey, that ain’t bad.
Which is only something you’ll admit to at four in the morning because from five on you’re hell-bent on only consuming shade grown coffee.
“I’m shade grown! And fair trade, organic!!” The decaf coffee in the recesses of your freezer is mocking you and you squash the urge to fling it across the kitchen. But at four in the morning, it’s the only conscious friend you have (a thought you refuse to analyze and most certainly will not bring up to your therapist next time you see her), so instead of flinging it, you grind it to a pulp.
Which it seems to enjoy. You’re not surprised your coffee bears traces of sadomasochism.
While you’re waiting for the decaf (WHY?!) to brew, you realize just how much you miss your coffee press. Honestly, you hadn’t realized the vehemence with which you had been stirring your coffee until you gently tinked the glass with the edge of the silicone spatula and the decanter shattered. Up until that moment, you had cherished the little darling. It got a warm bubble bath twice a week, ate only the finest coffee you could afford and never knew the harsh grating of a metal implement. You spoiled that appliance almost as much as you spoil your rabbits and it imploded on you approximately three months ago on a morning much like this one.
You wonder if that’s what having children will feel like.
You listen to the coffeemaker eep and pant its way through the brewing process and realize that you’ve had that sucker for eight years. You bought it when you first flew away to college in your parents’ old gray minivan, up and over the mostly imagined hills between Minnesota and Iowa. That little coffeemaker (you decide to name it Irving) has never failed you. Irving’s always made a good cup of coffee, despite his three year tenure in storage. You silently apologize to Irving for missing your former coffee press ingrate while he was in the process of brewing you coffee.
It’s your own damn fault the coffee’s decaf. Don’t blame Irving.
But, hey, Irving says, since it’s decaf, you can drink at least double what you normally do.
Irving, you realize, has a point. Normally, you restrict yourself to two cups of coffee in the morning because any more than that leaves you trembling like a doormouse with the DTs. (And pulling injections is nerve-wracking enough without adding shaky hands to the mix.) But this morning, thanks to Irving (you’re welcome!), you can drink coffee until it replaces water as your main ingredient.
Life is good.
Life gets even better when you grab your (brand spankin’ new) laptop, your cigarettes and that first glorious cup of coffee and head out to the front porch. Funny thing, there’s not many people up at four in the morning on a Saturday and you kind of feel like you have the neighborhood to yourself. The almost full moon (you forget if it’s waxing or waning–you think it’s waning) makes you smile because its light soaks your front steps like a greeting. And it doesn’t matter that it’s cold because you can pretend the distant sounds of the highway are a waterfall and the dull yellow light across the street is a campfire.
Cold cities smell different from warm cities, you realize not for the first time, and it almost feels like snow. You wonder how cold it is in Minnesota and Wisconsin, where your family lives. Mom will wear multiple sweaters topped by her windbreaker (I don’t need a new a coat! Yeah, whatever, Mom.), a scarf you made for her four years ago out of maroon worsted wool and a pair of gloves you wore for half a winter before losing, forgetting and buying another pair. She probably found them while moving, but you don’t entirely dismiss that she might’ve just found them anyway, for no reason other than she’s herself and finds things other people thought lost.
You miss your mom. You want a mom hug. You’ll call her later today and talk about mostly nothing, maybe a few somethings, most likely your job and how it’s frustrating, your brother and how he’s settling in, how you haven’t gotten to see him as much as you’d like.
Unfortunately, the cold makes your coffee cold. You curse physics (not for the first time) and trot inside where it’s warm and there are rabbits.
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