Instant Coffee

He checks his phone, blasphemes, checks his watch, repeats. He speaks in grunts and groans and seems only to exhale. Show, second party! Relieve him of his misery, and me of mine! I have enough of my own griefs, I don't need his, to paraphrase Romeo. "Are you kidding me?" he asks. "Are you serious?" "Really?" "Really?" "Really?!" Whatever the obvious truth it is difficult to accept, and whatever the excuse it is unacceptable.

I get the feeling that nothing has come easy today. Certainly, he thought, I imagine, a cup of coffee would be easy. A cup of coffee would be simple, simple syrup, cream two sugars, strong and black, whipped cream please. Probably the highlight of his day. Who knows how long he was looking forward to it?

But things come up. Obstacles appear. Excuses are made. Lies are concocted. Time is taken into consideration and feelings aren't. But how hard is it to add them to the pile? Alas, it is easy one way, yet easier another. There is instant coffee, after all.

He executes the bathroom plan, hoping when he returns the thing he wants, the person, the words, will be there. This usually, somehow, works. But not for him, not this time. He tries his bathroom luck again, but still nothing. More exhales. He has a book, and by my eye it has been Chapter One for quite some time. Perhaps it is a fascinating page. Perhaps he is not reading. But, oh, sir! What if the book were wonderful?

He checks his watch and phone again, lets out the last of his air. Standing, putting on his coat, he turns to the window. His shoulders slump at the sight of the outside world, and how dark it has gotten. A reminder of how long he has been in this place, and yet, it being winter, how long the day has left.