Smell The
Coffee - A Short Story
One of the
best ways to wake up on a cold winter morning, other than with morning-after
sex which is the very best way to wake up, is to wake up to a nice hot cuppa
filter coffee, the aroma of which filling the nostrils up in a “hello, morning's
come” kinda wake up alarm and the heat cupped in the palm as a gentle reminder
to sip and not to gulp to get the best of the bittersweet taste in the tongue
taste buds. Especially when you are accustomed to the same way of waking up
every morning for years and years, the bed coffee becomes a rite of passage and
an institution, with time, which you are loathe to let go of, despite any other
change in your life circumstances.
So when we
recently shifted houses to a new apartment I insisted on continuing the same
morning routing which I had been following for the past 60 years or more. This
was a bit tough on my wife for she has recently developed arthritis of both
legs and finds it difficult to wake up early on mornings. So even though one of
my daughter-in-law's volunteered to make my early morning cuppa I still prefer
my wife to fetch it for me to my bedside, for if I am anything I am a creature
of habit and its difficult after so many years of living together to wake up to
the face of someone else other than the familiar spouse.
Of course
there had been a bit of kerfuffle recently, when we shifted house here for some
malicious rumours had been spread by competing real estate brokers, business
rivals I suppose, of the real estate agent who had sold me this house, that
this place was vacant without possession for so long a time because it was haunted by the ghost of a
previous occupant's wife and said ghost being very particular in chasing away
other occupants by either frightening them or killing them off if they refused
to be frightened away into vacating the place.
I
disbelieved it entirely from the very first i heard of it, but the people in
the house were slightly disturbed by the
rumour and kept muttering about how cheaply we had got the place having
something to do with the fact of the rumour. But as I kept reminding them as as
retired pensioner this was very best I could afford and ghost or no ghost we
would have to put up with this- at least until I die, when my heirs could sell
this off and move away to wherever they wanted. This house or my death- I had
put my foot down and hoped that would be the end of all discussion.
So this
morning, a cold muggy morning I woke up to my usual smell of my usual brand of
filter coffee and accepted the cup -steaming hot and sipped it slowly still
with eyes closed and looking forward to my usual retired life – a day filled
with relaxation and small talk with my wife interspersed by meals at regular
intervals unlike the hectic work life I had been a part of all these years. As
I finished my coffee and still without opening my eyes, placed it on the side
table, leaving it for my wife to come back to collect the empty cup later, I
remembered something which caused a mild discomfort in my chest.
I remembered
that my wife and kids and grandkids had left the previous day for a vacation to
our native place and though I grumbled at the expense I had secretly looked
forward with pleasure at a few days of absolute solitude and living alone in my
new life. That's when the crushing pain in my chest started when I started
wondering about whose hand had handed over my usual cup of coffee when I had
closed and bolted all the doors safely last night before retiring to bed alone
in the house. As I am lying here on the bed clutching my chest and breathing
hard, sweat poring off my face, I wish I had strength enough to get up and go
check in the kitchen if there really was an empty cup of coffee in the kitchen
sink waiting to be washed or if I had imagined everything.
But the
taste, the taste of a fresh strong cuppa of the best coffee, it still lingered
on my tongue. I still maintain that there is nothing to beat waking up to a
nice hot cuppa filter coffee, unless to die for it.
