Cuppa Joe

I awake, an odd and unwelcome calmness upon myself. I am not myself today. I shall fear neither the rising sun, nor the waning moon. Yet, I find myself damp, wrapped up in a cold sweat, a remnant of the previous night, a remnant of my personal hell. I smile at myself, mostly outside myself. I can hear my heart beat. It just skipped one as I realize how loudly it beats.

Waking up feels like an ordeal. As I lever myself up, I feel a pain in my wrist. Short yet acute, its oddity arises from its absence within my consciousness. I feel like a ton of lead and yet it isn’t my sweat soaked clothes that weigh me down.

It is time for my cup of Joe. It is a constant reminder of human need for artificial politeness. I see her each day behind the register; my brain registers that primal impulse that gets the adrenaline pumping, my heart racing. It is common knowledge to the two of us of our mutual disdain. Yet our weak minds, bound by society and our need to exist within its walls, to be judged by it, force us to affect a smile of factitious genteelness. I order my cup of coffee, precisely the same way I did the day before, and the day before that… perhaps in part as a symptom of my compulsivity. And I see myself from without once more. I scoff at the disconnect between my demeanor and my actions. I politely answer, “Yes, Please”, when asked if I’d like milk with my coffee, while my mind fills with the fantasy, my fingers around her throat, wringing it lifeless.