Louise filled the coffee pot with water, and measured out the coffee. One...two...three...she wasn't really counting; she stopped when it looked like enough. The empty wine bottle was on the counter from the night before. Recycle. There, the testament to the night was gone from their vision. "It's going to be a hot one. Ninety-five degrees." She turned toward the fridge, opened it up, and stared inside. "Do you want jam on your toast? I have blackberry." She closed the fridge again. Louise turned back toward the sink. She busied herself washing out the pan - running the water, watching the suds bubble over the rim, scrubbing the tiny black fleck of cooked-on dirt barely the size of her pinky nail with a green scouring pad. He looked on. "He must think I'm really diligent about pot-washing," she thought. She looked up at him, smiled, and looked away. "Do you know this song? My sister loves it." \She tried looking up again, and this time held his gaze for a moment longer. "I might go get a new filter for my a/c today. \I don't know when the last time I replaced it was," she said, as if this were actually an interesting prospect for the day. "Coffee's ready. Do you take milk?," she said busying herself once again with two mugs, and two spoons, and the re-arranging of the fridge shelf to reach the milk. Her fingers touched his when she handed him the warm mug. They both lingered for a second, and then moved on.
The music on the stereo turned to something uptempo, a little too much for a lazy, unscripted morning. She winced to herself. She hadn't liked the silence either; she felt like she had to fill it. But the music felt off, too - the wrong mood. She wondered what the right mood music would be for the morning after. Louise's thoughts resounded through her head like in a vast echo chamber. They were small, random, and probably inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but they took up a lot of space, and they were hard to dodge. Like a hundred superballs in a racquetball court. They were loud and active - searching for an escape route. But she had sealed off all openings, and held them in check. Her thoughts clashed anyway, each one in direct conflict to the other. They ricocheted off the walls in her head - and collided with each other with bounces and rebounds. What was the point of letting any one of them out if the next one would contradict it anyway?
The music on the stereo turned to something uptempo, a little too much for a lazy, unscripted morning. She winced to herself. She hadn't liked the silence either; she felt like she had to fill it. But the music felt off, too - the wrong mood. She wondered what the right mood music would be for the morning after. Louise's thoughts resounded through her head like in a vast echo chamber. They were small, random, and probably inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but they took up a lot of space, and they were hard to dodge. Like a hundred superballs in a racquetball court. They were loud and active - searching for an escape route. But she had sealed off all openings, and held them in check. Her thoughts clashed anyway, each one in direct conflict to the other. They ricocheted off the walls in her head - and collided with each other with bounces and rebounds. What was the point of letting any one of them out if the next one would contradict it anyway?
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