Clouds in my Coffee
At the end of a stressful day, there’s nothing Karen likes more than turning her water up as hot as it will go and standing under the stinging waterfall until she’s as limp as a noodle. Sometimes she stands there so long, humming softly to herself, that her pathetic little water heater gives up the fight, her makeshift sauna quickly transforming into the arctic tundra. Today is no different. The stress of constantly having her guard up at a job she hates is giving her a tension headache. The pain starts at her temples and tugs mercilessly at the perpetual smile she forces herself to wear. Her tiny little bathroom is calling out her name before she even steps into her apartment.
It takes blessed little time for the water to heat up, the close space filling with steam almost immediately. She slips into the relaxing warmth and sighs in relief as the liquid rushes around her. Breathing in deeply, she takes the soothing steam into her body. She’s just started soaping her hair when she hears it, the faintly muffled sound of her neighbor talking. She cocks her head the the side, curiosity getting the better of her.
If he’s talking, it’s only to himself, because the cadence doesn’t allow for a second speaker. His low tone too far away for her to make out. She closes her eyes, wondering if perhaps she can channel some of Matt’s ability, and focuses on the sounds. She’s practically got her ear pressed up against the warm tiles before she realizes he’s singing, and not quietly either, belting out the words at the top of his lungs. I had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee, clouds in my coffee.
She should be annoyed, her one and only moment of peace during the day ruined by some overzealous shower-singer, but she knows exactly who it is, and the image of her gruff and annoyingly taciturn neighbor belting out the words to Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain” has her stifling a giggle. She’d once asked him if he was some kind of boxer or MMA fighter, the bruises and cuts constantly decorating her face making her wonder. He’d only shrugged and said, “Something like that,” before slipping quietly out of the elevator. It’s hard to imagine the scary looking guy singing along to seventies folk-rock.
The spontaneous grin on her face freezes when she realizes the sound is getting clearer, closer. Their apartments are mirror images, thin drywall the only thing separating them. She jerks her ear away from the tiles, a blush suffusing her cheeks that has nothing to do with the heat surrounding her. She turns her attention back to the shower, pretending not to notice the sound of his water turning on.
Unsuccessfully, she tries to push the image of him in the shower out of her mind. She’s seen him many times, leaving to go work out at some hole in the wall gym. His plain cotton tee straining against his shoulders, the defined lines of his back etched into her memory as she watched him walk down the hall. She was marginally grateful that he always ignored her.
But now, it’s all she can do not to imagine the way the water runs down those same ridges. She wonders what his ritual is. He’s probably lathering up the shampoo in his hair right now, taking a little in the palm of his hand to work into that ridiculously hot chin-strap beard of his, rinsing it out and letting the foam run down his body until it pools at his feet.
Karen’s hands still, her own loofah resting uselessly against her stomach. What the hell is she doing? She shakes her head, making quick work of the shampoo still in her blonde locks. She can already feel the water losing its heat, and she curses at her stupidity. Quickly she completes her ritual, castigating herself for being such a space case. In all honestly, a cold shower is probably a good idea.
… you probably think this song is about you…
The next day Karen is running late for work. A night of restless sleep made her hit the snooze button one time too many and she’s practically running down the hallway, the edge of a paper cup of coffee clamped precarious between her teeth, her briefcase in one hand, her keys and purse in the other. Someone’s already in the elevator, and she can see the doors beginning to slide shut.
The last thing she wants to do is wait for the cantankerous thing to make its way back up to her floor, and bounding down the stairs is not an option in her kitten heels, at least not with a hot cup of coffee. She yells out as best she can, “Ho uh ooor!”
At the last possible second, a hand shoots out, grabbing the sliding metal door and pushing it back. It’s no easy task, the ancient thing fighting every step of the way. She slips into the elevator quickly, turning to give a grateful look to her savior. Her blue eyes widen when she sees him. Mr. You’re-So-Vain staring right back at her, a very unamused look on his face. “Running late.”
It’s a statement, gruffly made, not a question, and he doesn’t even wait for a response before he pulls a newspaper out and starts perusing it. She bristles at his behavior, setting her briefcase down in the floor so she can resituate, slinging her cross-body bag up over her head and shoving her keys down in it. She flicks her hair back over her shoulders, standing straight. Even with her low heels on, she has no trouble at all looking this grouchy man in the eye. “Yes, and thank you for holding the doors.”
“My pleasure,” he says, somehow managing to make it sound like anything but. “Ma’am.”
She frowns at his strangely peeved yet formal tone. One might think that it had been her to interrupt his moment of relaxation last night and not the other way around. Whatever. She doesn’t have room in her life for assholes.
She picks up her briefcase when the elevator dings, doors sliding open to reveal the dingy little lobby. Taking a sip of her coffee, she strides out. Something stops her though, a little imp of the mischievous making her hesitate before she leaves her neighbor in the dust. She looks back at him, smiling. “What do you think she meant by ‘clouds in your coffee?’”
He jerks his head up from wrinkled paper to look at her, an embarrassing realization dawning on him. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something, but she doesn’t wait for it, sashaying out of the building and into the bright morning.
At first she thinks maybe showing her hand in the elevator will make him stop his showertime performances. But she soon realizes that rather than be embarrassed, he’s fully embraced the idea that she can hear him.
He seems to prefer upbeat seventies rock, sometimes even turning up his ipod for accompaniment during the more rollicking numbers. She can’t count the number of times she’s heard the entirety of Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way” in the past two months. A little unexplained thrill of pleasure shooting through her every time when she hears the first line. Loving you isn’t the right thing to do.
It’s ridiculous, but she can’t help but stay long after she’s done in the shower, listening to him. It’s so strange. There’s a certain camaraderie building between them. It’s illogical, and she calls herself crazy when sees him in the hallway, no familiarity at all between them. He tends to walk on down to the end of the hall, pushing through the doors to the stairwell. He’s not taking any chances, avoiding the possibility of getting stuck in the elevator with her again. She doesn’t know whether to be insulted or complimented.
One morning she sets her alarm an hour ahead, getting up and running down the street to the nearest coffee shop to order two steaming cups of joe before rushing back to her building. She’s fairly sure of his routine, and hopes to meet him in the hall.
She has no idea what she will say, and feels like a nervous teenager on her first date as she gathers up the courage to knock on his door. He should be up by now, dressed and ready to go out and do whatever the hell it is he does until the late hours.
His door swings open just as she raises her hand to knock, leaving her with one awkwardly raised hand and two cups of coffee cradled in her other arm. She wonders if he heard her shuffling awkwardly out in the hall, or if he was just on his way out. She swallows, about to open her mouth and tumble out the spiel she has prepared, but he interrupts her.
“Need something?”
The words on the tip of her tongue flee at the sight of him. He’s got a giant purpling bruise on the right side of his face creeping up toward his cheekbone, the skin puffy around the edges, some crooked stitches placed where the skin split from the force of the impact. She’s alarmed, her floating fingers uncurling and reaching out to touch him.
She’s surprised he doesn’t immediately recoil, and somewhere in the back of her mind there’s a part of her screaming to stop this inappropriate behavior, but she feels inexplicably close to him. Showering inches away from him every couple nights for months has burst whatever personal bubble there should be.
The skin under her fingertips is hot, inflammation tangible. She swallows. “Does it hurt?”
He takes a step back, withdrawing. “No,” he says, turning to grab his keys off the hook. He pushes out in the hallway, displacing Karen.
She shuffles back, but not quickly enough to avoid brushing up against him. He smells like sandalwood and something darkly inviting. She lets it pull her along for a moment, following him down the hall. She blinks, clearing her head. “Hey, don’t you want to know why I came by?”
“Who are you?”
The words are a little suspicious, and Karen is taken aback somewhat. “I’m Karen, your neighbor… nice to meet you…”
“Frank.”
“Well, Frank. I thought I’d be neighborly and bring you coffee.” She holds out the cup to him.
He doesn’t say anything, but there is a curious expression on his face, and he pauses, turning to look at her her. She smiles sweetly at him, using every weapon in her arsenal of amiability to break through his defenses. Briefly she sees the same surprise in his eyes that had been there that day in the elevator. He doesn’t reach out and take it.
She nudges the cup closer. “It’s black. Clouds cost extra.”
He does take it this time, the barest twitch of a smile tugging at his lips. “She said what it meant once.”
It’s more than she’s ever heard him say, aside from belting out songs from another room, and she’s incredibly intrigued. “Well don’t leave me hanging, what does it mean?.”
“The confusing parts of life and love.” He shrugged, taking a long pull from his cup, trying to shake off the strange vulnerability. “That could be bullshit though. Some guy on a plane said it to her when he saw the clouds reflected in her cup.”
Karen smiles. “Yes, but what lovely bullshit.“