Day Dreams and Caffeine

“My imagination has saved my life,” she said, watching her spoon wistfully dance in her coffee mug. Why people torture themselves drinking coffee black was beyond her. Life was bitter enough as it was, the least she could do was start her day with the pleasures of sweet cream.

“Have you ever watched couples as they go about in public? You can tell a lot in a relationship just by observing strangers as they walk. Take, for example, the hobbling old couple trying to cross the road. The woman places her shriveled hand in the bend of her husband’s elbow as he slows his gait to match her staggered walk. Together, they trudge forward, willing to accept any obstacle together - hand in hand, side by side. Broken glass, a pothole, a vehicle careening through the intersection - no matter what they encounter - they’re in it together.

Then you have the new love, right? The kind that is so awkward and exciting you can’t help but show your connection at every possible opportunity. Those are the kids - fresh acne marks tainting their otherwise elastic, porcelain skin - like little pimples of reality erupting from their naive and virgin interpretation of what it is to love someone. That’s the lust you mistake for love, when you’re celebrating your 4 month anniversary with a blow job on the side of the road in your aunt’s hand me down car. But when you’ve run out of monthly milestones and ways to suck a dick, the newness wears off and it’s on to the next hot flash in the pan.”

The waitress interrupted. “Coffee?” and she was released from the hypnotic trance her spoon and mug had on her. She gave a gentle nod and she topped off both mugs without a word. As the waitress began to walk away, she let out a plea for more cream, but much like most things in her life, it was received by deaf ears. Too tired to muster up the courage to speak louder or flag down another staff member, she settled for two damp sugar packets instead and returned to the comforting rhythm of the spoon twirling in her mug.

“Then there’s love. True, unrestrained, makes-you-want-to-puke-in-your-cereal love. The couple so enamored with each other, so connected by invisible strings, you can almost feel the energy between them. The subtle placement of his hand in the small of her back. The way her eyes catch his and they lock on each other, totally forgetting the world around them. He is captivated as she laughs like it’s the sound of angels singing. She gently nestles to his collarbone, breathing in the familiar smell of his hair and the way his cologne settles on his skin. A touch, a glance, a smell - and it takes them to memories of secrets they only share together.

That’s the one, that’s the one that I long for. So many times I’ve walked alone, but I discretely move my hand to my back and close my eyes. I can feel him there, guiding me along with his hand resting lovingly at the belt loops of my jeans, proud to have me by his side, like I’m something special or some shit like that. I know it’s fucked up but I can hear his laugh. It floats through the air and fills up the emptiness that is in the lonely spaces all around me. I can smell the sweetness of his skin and I can feel his hair graze against my cheek as it dances in the breeze. We’d spend a whole lifetime like that, making the choice to wake up everyday and love each other with all we’ve got, until one day, our bodies start to fail us, but we support each other through the next walk of our life, feeble hand on weakening muscle.

I really can’t explain it but sometimes, when the shit is so heavy around me, my mind takes me to that couple and I am free. He doesn’t have a name, the man in my mind, but I can see the sparkle in his eyes when he’s laughing over a joke shared between buddies. He’s holding a beer in his hand and touching his friend’s arm, but his eyes search for me and we are all that matters. When the silence around me is too much to take or the words fall like shrapnel out of the air, meant to penetrate and pierce my armor, I go to our place with him. He’s caressing my hair as I read a book. We are propped up under a tree on the most beautiful, perfect day. I’m resting my head on his middle and every so often he leans over to steal a kiss.

My reality is anything but the perfect world inside my head, but that’s been the only way I’ve known to mute the bad thoughts and hateful words. I know how to escape the world around me while bombs explode and there I stand, mute and unresponsive, afraid to contribute any fuel to his fire. It’s the only way I know to survive.