Title: Black coffee monday
by Bethan from Nottinghamshire | in writing, fiction
Over the incessant buzz of the refrigerator I can hear Stefan's footsteps. He is stumbling down the stairs, dragging his naked feet as if he is lame. It is the walk of a man who wishes dearly that he were still in bed, but cannot bring himself to sleep through life any further. There is a pause in his gait and I know that any moment now he will open the door and falter before he enters the confine that is the filthy kitchen, contemplating the crushing inevitability that he will have to step into a light that will rouse him from his waking comatose state.
The door creaks and I do not look up as he enters the room. His jaw stretches, his fingers stretch the skin around eyes that are unfamiliar with the banality of being awake. He unveils them and our gazes meet; I am reminded momentarily of my father, a man all stubble and indigo bruises.
'Today's my birthday.'
His voice is trembling, wracked by tobacco and heartache. The words are like some sort of gory discharge; a symptom of some hideous illness. Life is an illness to him, I think. Not quite serious enough so it is fatal, but enough so that it relinquishes him of everything except the air in his lungs.
Absentmindedly I roll a cigarette upon the table while he watches, amazed by the physical strain I exert so early in the morning. When I am done I push it along the table towards him. He stares at it.
'Happy birthday,' I see his eyes again and for a fleeting moment am pitiful, 'I made it myself.'
He frowns.
'God, I hate your guts.'
It is the most alive I have ever seen him.
This was inspired by every Monday morning that has ever been or ever will be, and gritty cop dramas because I love them.
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