Out of superstition, fear, or respect Mark’s double espressos were never consumed on the red chair that Donna sat in. Spilling espresso on the chair would be frowned upon even in death. And it was Donna’s morning perch for her latte.
Every morning Mark stood or sat at the stainless counter and had his espresso. He would look at the red chair and see Donna and Nina on the chair allowing the comfort of these memories to wake him.
The morning rituals were blind repetitive movements eroded into the bedrock of 38 years in the same space. The promise, hope, and warmth of caffeine became less a realized achievement. It was just that thing to do at that hour that day. Pushing boredom aside with nothing mattered moments of empty to-do’s.
His current state of being shouted there was nothing to motivate or assuage the amber like state of his emotional of his life. His ever-present expiration date with all its transient aches, pains, hypochondria, and surrender of meaning whispered like a wind chime. The memories became elongated trailing shadows following him in the sunlight of today. Nothing seemed to matter any longer.
A finger poked at the espresso stained letter. It was sitting on the stainless steel island for 48 hours wishing it were not real. The words on the letter did not surprise him. There were hints in newspapers, online, on broadcast media even before Donna was diagnosed with Stage IV cancer and given six months of life which became three years of being the docent for her death. Followed by ten years of grief. The vista of life in front of him was seen through a muddy and cracked windshield. Even wipers couldn’t clear the future. All of his future foreshadowed within the letter. What had been a loop of thoughts and goals was a road sign ‘Exit in five miles.’
Speaking to no one Mark said, “I guess it is time.”