​The bitter end.

(This is for a creative writing contest that has to start and end with a cup of tea or coffee – any and all feedback appreciated. It’s still very rough)

The low hum of the kettle plays its morning song. It gently breaks the peace of night as everything begins to rouse from its peaceful slumber.

I always want to hold onto the night, its cosy warmth, its silence, its beauty; disturbing it feels like a crime. So I break it slowly.

First the kettle plays its mild introduction, followed by the teaspoons and their twinkling percussion.

The broken tranquility of the evening and night is paid for in coffee.

For some, coffee is the highlight of their morning, given over from warm hands and with a loving kiss. It is the punctuation, the respite, the pleasure, of an otherwise busy time when sleep is still clinging to every fibre of every movement. Like swimming through treacle, coffee comes as welcome relief in such mornings.

This day hasn’t truly begun for me yet. This is but a small reprieve before the action will start, and I intent to enjoy it. I will savour this quiet before the storm as I savour the nights before bed. I will relish this time knowing that from it many more shall be born.

I tip toe quietly between kitchen units and I do not allow the teaspoon to play its tune in the cup. I carefully apply pressure to the refrigerator door to open it slowly and with maximum control, so it remains silent, retrieve its creamy cargo; and I close it with such gentleness it’s as if it were never even opened.

My perfect cup of coffee is brewed. Thankfully, smell does not work quite like sound and I can enjoy it’s surrounding aroma without an early awakening of him. I watch as the milk expands into the deep brown and black depths, billowing out through it. A literal storm in a teacup.

The clock reads 06:15, I have 15 minutes until the alarm clock will play its dissonant song. 15 minutes until he will wake.

I sit and relish every quiet moment and enjoy the stages of the coffee. I enjoy as it goes from piping hot to warm, small sips and bigger gulps both providing a different experience.

Everything is ready, his cup is laid out near the kettle, there is milk in the fridge, sugar in the little dish near the coffee and tea, a teaspoon laid out next to it. Everything has a place and is standing to attention, awaiting my command.

There is an addition to this arsenal, a small dish, dark blue and dimpled in rugged pottery, identical to the sugar dish. It sits perfectly angled behind the sugar in camouflage. White granules lie within it. To me at this moment it is so though those granules are vibrating with energy.

I have planned and thought and planned and thought, researched, planned and thought. I have taken in every crevice and crack of this kitchen and I know that small dish is invisible to the common eye. However, to me, at this moment that dish may well be a blazing fire. I look around the kitchen and take everything in, but my eyes are drawn back time and time again to this small dish. It’s like a magnet.

I am tingling with energy, anticipation runs through me like lighting. Is this excitement? Or dread?

06:23 I have 8 minutes. I wriggle my toes feeling the energy pool in them and dissipate momentarily only to recharge and renew itself. It’s so quiet I feel I can hear my cells moving. Am I relishing this too much?

I expected to feel more. There is only energy but minimal emotion. I am almost numb, just on the cusp of feeling, as though emotion is just an abstract concept far along the horizon of my mind. The energy, the hum, the internal buzzing that has no real feeling only movement is the only thing I feel. This is good, I feel clear headed, void of emotion one can make solid decisions. But I admit I expected to feel more. Is it concerning to feel so little?

An electronic interlude disrupts all that has existed, changing it forever. The crackling harsh sound of the alarm clock radio breaks the peace,the silence, the morning. A new morning is starting now. I’m too awake and alert to be startled by the alarm, instead I merely flex, like a cat stretching, my muscles and body expand and then gently contract with the alarms unpleasant noise.

I hear the sheets rustling, an arm fumbling for the button. A loud yawn, not simply the intake of air but a sound to go along with it, announcing to the world “I am awake.”. I hate that yawn.

Then silence. The alarm is gone. Silence resumes, but this silence is different from the one before, this silence is anticipatory, it is only a moments reprieve. Then bumping, thuds, movement is everywhere now. He is getting up.

“Morning.” A voice calls as feet pattern down steps.

“Morning darling.” I reply, as feet and then legs and torso and face take shape coming down the stairs.

“Coffee?” I ask perfunctorily.

“Thanks love.” He says and kisses my forehead taking a seat at the breakfast bar.

There is no reverence for the silence of the ending night. Everything he does is loud. The alarm, the yawn, the steps, the movement of the chair. Everything bleeds and oozes sound with him. I wish I were deaf.

I push the button on the kettle, it’s soft click, the starting pistol of this next scene. The kettle begins its low hum and I lift the teaspoon. Am I really going to do this?

The kettle stops and I jump a little, the first hint of bubbling emotion, nerves. Did the kettle always boil so fast?

I pick up his cup and take a teaspoon of coffee, then a teaspoon of sugar, the second dish looks at me. Im convinced he’s watching me now. My hand is moving, moving towards that dish, scooping the white powder. At any moment he’s going to say something, ask why I’m giving him 2 sugars instead of 1? Ask why there’s 2 sugar bowls?

I drop the white powder into the cup. And there is silence. No questions or queries. I breathe and use that breath to power my turn to the fridge where I remove the milk. I lift the kettle, it seems heavier now. I create the black drink, it looks so black now. Mine didn’t look that black I don’t think. I add the milk, expecting the blackness just to swallow the milk and encompass its whiteness but the billowing clouds appear.

Small white flecks swim in the stormy brown sea. The teaspoon enters like a magic wand and they are vanquished.

“Here you go.” I walk the few steps to the breakfast island and deposit the coffee in front of him.

“Thanks dear.”