carton of milk: two percent

I can't remember the last time I burned the coffee. Unless that time would be now, in which case I would be fully realizing the moment: coughed up stains on my pajamas, blistered fingers, and that bitter, bitter aftertaste. That unpleasant feeling of being suddenly aware, too, like I hadn't dragged myself out of bed an hour ago. But of course being awake and being aware are two separate things. I'd told myself two weeks ago I'd replace the damn thing, reminded myself yesterday not to use it. The coffee maker we'd bought should've broken down months ago -- and here it is, quietly humming on the counter. Here I am, still holding onto things. I'd always had a knack for remembering things I didn't need to and forgetting things I did. The spilled liquid stares back sullenly from the table; I avoid its gaze and reach for the dish towel. I can't remember the last time I burned the coffee, no, but I do remember where you kept the towels in case I did. So there was that.

How can you just drink it like that? you're asking. Scrutinizing gaze across the table, question laid flat. Fingers tapping impatiently. And I'm pulling out the milk and sugar for you when you say it again, only reworded. Personally, if I were you -- voice muffled by spoon, carton dangerously close to tipping -- I'd just get used to the sweetness. You know that 'no sugar' stuff is all bullshit anyway.

The rag soaks up the sugary, bitter liquid as easily as it had spilled, tainting the white in a matter of seconds. I hadn't spilled the whole cup, thankfully: there's just enough cloth to wipe the linoleum clean. Leave the tiles as stark and spotless as possible. I'd changed the flooring after you, of course. Couldn't bear to scrub the oxidized red off the hardwood. Then I'm pushing myself up and off the floor, tossing the rag aside, and pouring the rest of the coffee down the sink. I can feel you hopping onto the counter beside me, that uneven quirk pulling at your lips. Half-disappointment, you like to call it.

Tut-tutting. What a waste, you mutter, watching the liquid trickle down the drain. Then the soap suds, then the water, then the empty reflection as I move to turn off the faucet. The red dishtowel glides over the ceramic surface quickly; I set the mug beside the sink, far from the edge of the counter. Can't have it falling. But the image catches me anyway, the thought of it -- and I'm turning to you as I reach for the hand soap, waiting and not waiting for the blood on the floor. Barrel against your temple. No note. My mind can't help but race at those last seconds, at what might have happened if I'd walked in moments earlier. What I would have done if I knew what you were going to do that day. The water in the sink is barely warm. And the dispenser, it almost sounds like --

I'm pulling the window curtains open before I know it. Breathing. The morning light fills in the places where you should be, even with my eyes darting to find your outline. Even with your place at the table set just the way you like it, the memory forcing me through the routine. There's no one. I rest my head in my hands. Let out a sigh as I push away from a counter I didn't know I'd been leaning on.

I'd always wondered why you asked me to buy milk so early that day.