The hot, rich flavor of the coffee makes my taste buds sing.
I hear the snicking sound of the French door closing. When I glance over, I’m not surprised to see Nora still wearing her grandma’s robe. She’s no longer wearing the dress from yesterday and her hair is wet from a shower. Beneath the robe, she’s wearing soft, gray capris and a matching T-shirt. Her grandma’s slippers flop across the hardwood deck as she takes a seat. Without looking my way, she sips from the teacup that typically sits by Goldie’s bedside.
“Hope you don’t mind,” she says softly. “I grabbed some of your coffee.”
I don’t ask why she’s drinking from a teacup because I know. She’s grieving right now and wants to feel closer to her grandmother. For the first time, I see a soft, vulnerable human version of her.
“It’s what it’s there for,” I murmur, voice gruff. “I can make more.”
She slides her feet out of the slippers and brings her knees to her chest, hugging them with one arm. All her makeup has been washed away, and her eyes are swollen from crying. Her shoulders are slightly slumped in defeat. Guilt tugs at my insides knowing I didn’t help things yesterday.
“Back home,” Nora says absently, “people don’t do this.”
“Drink coffee?”
She cants her head to the side, electric blue eyes meeting mine. “Relax. Sit without looking at their phones. Do nothing.”
“Doing nothing is my favorite thing to do.” I snort out a small laugh. “And that’s why I’m best suited for small-town living.”
When I lift up my “Not in a Hurry” mug, she grins at me. In the dim morning light, it brightens the space. Not sure I like that.
“In the city, there’s a place on the corner near where I live,” she says as she inhales the scent of her coffee, “and it has great coffee and vibes. But, if you’re not there with plenty of time to spare before work, you’ll be late. They’re always so busy. It’s straight chaos, too. Baristas are yelling when orders are ready and customers shuffle about like zombies on crack.”
“You’re painting a nightmarish picture.” I smirk and sip my coffee. “Why not make your own?”
“Ohhh,” she croons after taking a sip. “Because it doesn’t taste like this.”
We sit in silence for a few more minutes. Then, little by little the sky starts blending purples and blues. Soon, it’ll be pink and orange as the sun makes her debut.
“It’s so peaceful here.” She sighs heavily. “I don’t remember this part.”
Resentment rears its ugly head, and I almost snap out something rude. I swallow down some coffee instead. As much as I don’t understand her reasons, I am trying to be pleasant to be around. Because Goldie would want me to.
A small breeze smelling of salty air and strawberries dances our way. I’m reminded that I need to check on the strawberries today. There were a few that were close to being ready.
The sunrise continues its watercolor transformation from one end of the spectrum of colors to the other end. I drink until my cup is empty and then set it beside me on the table. Clo thinks I’ve summoned him because he leaves where he’s been perched on the side of the birdbath and lands on the edge of my mug.
“Can I help you?” I say to my bird friend.
He chirps and sings his pretty little bird song. Then, he turns, pokes out his but, and craps into my cup.
“For funkytown’s sake, bird!”
Clo yells back at me and flaps his wings angrily. Nora giggles and I ignore the way it makes my chest tighten.
“Not funny,” I grumble.
“Not true,” she throws back. “I’m just trying to decide what’s funnier. The fact your bird friend sang you a song before pooping in your coffee cup or that a big, mean lumberjack said funkytown instead of?—”
Clo hushes her with angry chatter. He clearly learned that from Goldie.
“Your grandma wouldn’t let me curse,” I say quietly, mostly to myself. Pain inside my heart has me antsy to leave this uncomfortable conversation. I quickly rise to my feet, shoo the budgie off my mug, and then gesture inside. “I need to wash out my mug.”
I bolt inside, eager to escape. Sometimes the emotions swarm over me out of nowhere. I’m a grown man and crying in the cookie aisle of the store because you no longer have to buy the Pecan Sandies for your elderly roommate sucks. It hits out of nowhere and is embarrassing.
After washing out my mug twice for good measure, I pour another cup. Rather than going back outside, I lean against the counter and sigh heavily. Outside, I can see my truck, and I’m reminded that I eventually have to go back to work. My clients are understanding, but I can’t expect that of them for too long.
“Elias…”
