Coffee

The apartment was small. Felt tight. The walk here. long. A long concrete path to the bus. Coffee was bad. It came from a small cafe on the corner. It was bitter. It was not hot. She bought it. every day. The routine was fixed. She looked at the screen. People had big houses. They had good lives. They were in sunlight. But her? Her couch. Old. Sagging. Her kitchen. paint chipped by the sink. A gray spot on white. She ran her finger over it. saw the lack. The routine. fixed and empty.

The lights went out. The fan stopped. The humming was gone. Silence came. a new sound. It filled the room. The Wi-Fi. gone. The phone. dying. The screen. dark. She moved. found the flashlight. The beam was thin. It showed dust floating in the air. Dust she had not noticed. The routine was broken. This was bad.

an hour. she saw light. A soft, steady light. across the courtyard. Mrs. Gable sat on her balcony. A small lantern was lit. She played cards with a boy. A card slapped on the table. They laughed. Then, a family in a window. By a candle. They ate dinner. She went to her own balcony. The air was cool. She looked up. The sky was dark. The lights were gone. The stars were there. A great field of them. She had not known they were there. It was a simple fact she had missed.

The next day, the power was still out. She needed coffee. The walk was a walk. Down the long street. The cafe had a stove on the street. A flame burned. The Coffee was free. The smell was good. The line was long. People stood and talked. An old man. he talked about bread. He made bread for fifty years. A young woman. She talked about her dog. The dog chased its own tail. The line moved. She listened. The cup was hot in her hands. She held it. She drank. It was good. Perfect. The world was full of stories.

The lights came back on. They cheered. The refrigerator started again. She walked into her apartment. She saw the sofa. For reading a book. She saw the kitchen. For cooking a meal. The chipped paint. still there. It was just a spot. The space was not small. It was a place. She played music. The first notes filled the room. Peace came. It was a good feeling. A full feeling.

In the morning, the clock blinked. She made her own coffee. The machine. It hissed. It drip-dropped. The cup was full. She held the mug. The warmth was real. She looked out the window. The street was there. The cafe was there. The words came. From a place that was full. Not a want. A fact.

“Thank you.”

The coffee tasted good. The best she had ever had. The cup was full.