A Flash of Jazz - COFFEE

 

He sipped his coffee and wondered where the time went. It wasn't so much that he needed to get somewhere, only that he needed to know that the time, his time, passed him by. He took another sip and then added more sugar. He jokingly said once that he loved his coffee like he liked his women - hot, sweet, and bitter at the end. He sat alone at his living room table and stared out of the window that revealed his dying garden. He wanted to try to bring his flowers back to life one day, maybe never, possibly some time. On his third sip, he thought about Claire. Claire, the woman he met that night at the book signing in Boulder. Claire, the woman who said she loved him and only him after their first night of sweaty lovemaking, followed by her smoking a French cigarette and him hating her for it. Claire, the woman who left her dark home and past to be with him and his "chance of a better life". She came to him, loved him, and now slept in his bed after a long night of working on her new novel. He knew better than to get involved with a writer, yet he couldn't help it. She showed him a world filled with rare books, languages spoken under a hushed darkness, and French cuisine. He stared into his cup, the one cup he refused to wash because all of the coffee consumed in it seemed to season the mug, then sighed. Five years later, he thought to himself, and she still won't marry me. She was the only one who listened to his Miles Davis albums, scratched and faintly reeking of sweat. She was the only one who knew what it meant to die. He finished his coffee, then got up to pour himself another cup. Just then, Claire appeared in the doorway, the remnants of sleep still lingering on her body that wore an oversized shirt. She gave him a lazy smile and then walked to the cupboard to get her special coffee mug. What did you brew, she asked with a yawn. French Roast, he replied as he handed her the pot. You talked in your sleep again, he said with a lopsided smile. She poured herself a cup and then turned to face him with a bright smile. And what did my Muse say through me this time, she asked. He took her in his arms and kissed her. When he pulled away, he noticed that her eyes were closed. Did you return to your dream, he asked, causing her eyes to flutter open. I was in a bookstore, she replied after taking a quick sip, and you stood before me covered in blood. I think you murdered someone, she added as she sat down at the table. An author that no one wanted to read anymore. He remained standing while her dream pierced his mind. Clean gloves hide guilty hands, he thought himself as he noticed the smallest fleck of something red under his left thumb's fingernail. Am I dreaming, or perhaps she is, he thought to himself as he sat down across from her at the table. While Claire sipped on her coffee in blissful silence, David looked into his cup, into the swirling black, and remembered that he never dreamt. He was never that lucky. 

Album played while writing - Open Land by John Abercrombie (ECM)