A Certain Shade of Bitter

Arthur always knew the exact moment the color blue would hit him. It wasn't the kind you saw in the sky or on a painted wall. This blue, it was a taste, something that settled on his tongue like dust, then seeped into his molars, down his throat, and straight into the pit of his stomach. It wasn't bitter, not like coffee left too long on the burner. More like… metallic. The tang of old pennies. The flat, dull ache of a winter morning when the light was grey, not even proper white, just endless grey-blue stretching out to nowhere.

Tonight, it came with the greasy smell of onions frying at the diner. He slid into his usual booth, the cracked vinyl cold against his palms. Three in the morning, dead quiet, just him and the old man behind the counter, Frankie, wiping the same spot on the counter for the tenth time. Arthur didn't need to order. Frankie already had the mug of black coffee waiting, steam curling lazy in the dim light.

He picked up the mug. Warm. But the first sip… there it was. Not the coffee. The blue. It was in the lukewarm liquid, sure, but it was *more*. It was the feeling of a cold bench in the park, the kind that steals the warmth from your backside even through thick trousers. It was the memory of Eleanor’s absence, a hollowed-out space beside him on the sofa, still perfectly contoured to a shape that wasn't there anymore. It was the way the old house creaked, not with settling wood, but with a kind of deep, sighing loneliness.

He put the mug down. Frankie didn’t look up. Never did. Knew better than to poke at Arthur when the blue was on him. Everyone had their own version of it, Arthur figured. Their own private, ugly shade. His just happened to come with a flavor. He stared at the condensation rings on the formica, watched them blur and disappear. Each one a tiny, temporary world, gone.

It wasn’t a sad taste, not exactly. Sadness had tears. This blue was too heavy for tears. It was an acceptance, maybe. A resignation. The flavor of knowing some things just wouldn't ever be different. He ran a thumb over the rim of the mug, rough where the glaze had chipped away. That chip. Eleanor had done that, dropped it when she was laughing too hard at one of his terrible jokes. He remembered the sound, a sharp clink, then her gasp, and then her hand flying to her mouth, trying to stifle the giggles as he pretended to be furious.

He closed his eyes, and the blue intensified. It felt like the pressure of deep water, a silent, crushing weight. He could feel it behind his eyelids, a throbbing pulse of color that wasn't actually color. It was the weight of every unspoken word, every 'I love you' he’d thought but hadn't said, every 'I'm sorry' he'd felt but hadn't uttered. Men of his generation, they weren’t good with words. Actions, yes. Providing. Fixing. But words? Those got caught in the throat, dissolved into the ether, and left a residue. This blue residue.

He opened his eyes. The diner looked stark, harsher. The fluorescent lights hummed a low, unchanging note. He pushed the mug a little away, took a deep breath. The taste lingered, a ghost of a flavor that wouldn’t leave. He tried to think of something else, anything. The garden. The rusty gate latch he needed to fix. The new book from the library, a western. Something solid. Something he could touch, or build, or read.

But the blue clung, stubbornly. He saw a fly land on the sugar dispenser, rub its tiny legs together. Busy. Just busy. He envied that fly a little, its simple, unburdened existence. No memories of chipped mugs or laughter that turned to silence. No taste of the absence of a woman who made even his worst jokes funny.

He signaled for Frankie, just a slight raise of his hand. Frankie nodded, already reaching for the pot, pouring a fresh cup. This time, Arthur focused on the heat, the true, bitter bite of the coffee. It cut through the blue a little, like a sharp current through still water. Didn't make it disappear, not fully. But it made it bearable. For now. He picked up the mug again, took a long, slow sip. The blue was still there, a constant companion, but he drank it down all the same, let it settle, let it be.