He's baffled when I call, he remembers what he did. The idea that I would not only contact him, but ask him to meet, is audibly confusing. He sputters, and then I hear a familiar eagerness take over. "Of course, I'll meet for coffee, where at?"
"I was hoping I could come over; it's been a long time since I was there. I forget, why did I stop coming around?" I tease in response. I let it hang for the briefest moment, I can see him squirm in my mind's eye. He always was a squirrely thing.
"Anyhow, I'll be there in 30, cool?" I lay my sweetest tone on these words, and he forgets my jab. He agrees, and thank goodness. This is the last coffee I will ever drink, the thought twists in my mind. I almost fall putting on my shoes, at this point the illness has taken the girl I was when I last saw Patrick.
My doctor told me it was coming last fall, "You will be in a wheelchair within a few years." he said to me, as if he was announcing that I should expect tempeh at dinner.
I close the door to my empty apartment, drop the key at the office, and I depart for the last time. The idea rebounds in my head, and for a moment I want to fall to my knees, take in every bit of sky that I haven't loved enough. I want to roll in the grass, climb a tree, writhe in the leaves and the dirt until I am clean, at heart.
Instead, I get into my car, and I buy the man who stole my childhood a coffee. I pull up to his house, and I remember the last time I arrived there, following my father up the front stairs. Game day, tabletop fun, nerds and food. I mistakenly thought this was a haven, my dad never did know why I stopped joining in...
"Puberty, I get it. You're just too cool to hang with your dad." He laughed; it was all okay. Except it wasn't, I just let him think so. I walk up the stairs with the same energy, knocking on the door with the drink carrier in my other hand.
Markus Spiske
The coffee's steaming still when we sit down at his kitchen table, I turn the sleeve on my cardboard cup absentmindedly, my hands won't stop moving. I hear myself, muffled. I'm making small talk about my life, the usual drivel. My nausea swirls in with the most cherished scent of coffee.
I watch in slow motion as his lips finally touch the cup, I match the action, encouraging him to drink with connection. "It's so wonderful to welcome someone, isn't it?" I say, taking another sip in pause.
He wags an eyebrow up at the strangeness of the question, yet smiles to agree anyhow, and once again sips in tune. Those CIA primers on body language manipulation have paid off for me. "It's a damn shame when that gesture is false though. What are your thoughts on that?" I ask, it doesn't matter what happens now.
"Listen, I shouldn't—" Patrick starts, but I don't want to hear it. The table has flipped under my white knuckled hands before he can finish the sentence, and I whisper to him. Forcing him to lean forward to catch my words, I seethe "No, you shouldn't have."
"But you did, didn't you?" I think of the white hallways waiting for me when I leave, wash it away... And his face takes on a quality that I've seen before, red, sweat begins to form on his brow. "I'm in control this time." I'm telling myself, but it's fine for him to hear it too. I shove him, it's empty, but feels good.
Before the foam passes his lips, I'm back in my car. I have a date to keep; euthanasia, some people think it's sad. As if those choosing it aren't already gone in their minds. Dignity in choice, I will be dead in 10 years slowly, or today. Still whole, I sigh. I remember bright pieces in my hands, dragons and mages, belief in dork culture supreme.
I ruminate as I drive 5 miles below the speed limit, savoring the lingering scent the coffee left in my car. Too bad I dumped the rest with the table, I can't help but chuckle as I walk into the center. Peace guides my body through the process, the rest of me waits beyond. Clean.
This is a fictional story written for spill the beans, a writing initiative hosted by Cinnamon Cup Coffee Community.