His eagerness to wake early was spiritual, not physical. The wild, sometimes ecstatic, sometimes terrible, often uneventful, goings-on of dreamspace left a haze that fought daily for his loyalty with the immediate coldness of reality. Every morning, he waged a war in miniature. A war between a man longing for life, even if cold, and the siren-song of the pillow’s caress and the blanket’s warm embrace.
He’d set the alarm across the room, set it loudly, to force him to embark upon his pre-dawn crusade. The ear-splitting and unsettling mechanical beeping was his trumpet of war and at four-thirty sharp it sounded. At first, in that hazy fog he had carried back from dreamspace, the alarm seemed to herald an invincible foe, rather than his nearing triumph. But a hopeful spark caught within his chest, rising quickly into a guarantee of victory. He had but to get up and walk. And so he did, landing a swift blow to the alarm’s hubristically displayed Achilles’ heel, as rising anticipations of liquid warmth crowded out all desire to return to the now-lost land of dreams. He’d dreamt of Lisa. He still sensed a fading longing to go back to that land of fantasies, where his faults were few, the endings happy. But, he was a man of battle now.
Perhaps the coldness of morning without sun was why his chosen weapon was another source of warmth, one quite apart from sheets and blankets. Coffee is often looked upon as a chemical weapon, wielded as a powerful drug-driven assault on fatigue and ennui. And yet he couldn’t deny the transformative power of the warmth as the prime mover in emboldening him to charge headlong into the battle against the bed.
He switched on the espresso machine, a behemoth of die-cast metal, a reactor that generated immense pressure to extract his warm weapon from the lovingly cultivated crop of the local roaster. He removed the portafilter from its nighttime resting place at the grouphead, as if pulling sword from stone. He placed it under the grinder, pressing with it the button behind to begin the burrs turning. They ground relentlessly against the frail opposition of the beans, issuing a fine powder that would soon be transformed into the seed of this day’s final victory against the soul-violent enticements of sleep. He tamped down the grounds, pressing down his foe with them. Locking the portafilter back in place under the grouphead, he pressed for a double shot. The pressure inside the die-cast warmachine mounted abruptly, sending out the bellowing sounds of a bustling factory. The resounding noise signaled the bed’s immanent defeat. Twin shots began to flow like warm honey. The cacophonous racket faded to the peaceful song of flowing dual rivers of condensed Arabica. The machine stopped as suddenly as it had started, leaving behind a steam-billowing ochre crema through which deep brown-black could be seen, as the depths of the sea through the foam as it calmed. He let the hot water flow in now, a café Americano in the making. When it finished he took the white ceramic in his hands, cupping it as if it were a priceless elixir. He plodded, still weary, through the last bit of battlefield to the den’s leather wingback. He sat, and brought the mug slowly to the edge of his lips. Then, the scents came.
Caramel. He was transported to their second anniversary dinner. Apple slices, green and red, dipped into a salted-caramel fondue, coming at the end of courses of white and yellow flowing cheeses, crusty breads and wine-cured meats. Lisa’s coy smile, enjoying the moment and yet hinting at a dessert they both were anticipating, one not involving food. He had forgotten what they talked about but he remembered the warmth. The warmth was what he needed to fight the daily temptation to retreat to the false shelter of the blankets.
Chocolate. They sat on a park bench a few years later, sharing a bar in the moonlight. Jasmine in the air, a cool breeze, their bare feet in the grass as they talked of children and acres for gardening. The lunar glow lit Lisa’s face softly, as her eyes closed and she came close for a kiss that was never-old. Her hair smelled like strawberries. It was a chilly night, but still he only remembered the warmth.
Cardamom. Lisa was always baking after the baby came. Spiced cakes were the adventure of almost a whole year. Her dedication to something seemingly unimportant gave him the intoxicating awareness that she was both disciplined and whimsical. She was a contradiction perhaps, but also a glorious unity, full of life and so giving of that abundance.
Soil, after the rain. Two years ago they had buried David, a tender child of just three years. A heart defect. Lisa wept daily. He thought that he was the one with a heart defect, though, feeling that everything now was forever cold. He had no warmth to give her. And he stole her warmth to keep him going. She told him she had to leave for a while. A while became a year. And all that while he longed for and dreamt of the warmth that he had forced to leave.
The coffee cooled and he came back to the den. Until a few weeks ago, he’d spent the year craving only escape and comfort. The only warmth was there in the Lisa-empty bed. So he went back day after day to the counterfeit warmth, dreaming of the real one. Somehow though, thank God, he realized the war was happening, that the sham warmth of the bed was stealing away his chances for anything true. It was for a long time a war of subterfuge and espionage on the part of his enemy. But, he knew the enemy’s name now. It was called “run away”. And he had resolved to never listen to that lie again. For David’s sake. And for Lisa’s.
He felt just then a different sort of desire. The morning’s victory over his constant adversary cleared the air for a different sort of calling. A call to a call. He reached for the phone.
“Hi. Are you awake?”
“Yes, Bryan. You know I don’t sleep well.”
“Would you like to meet me for a coffee? Fifteen minutes? Our old place?”
“Yeah, okay.”
He was overcome by the flush of the true warmth once again. He didn’t know how to fight this new battle, but he knew what he was fighting for. He’d never steal that warmth again for himself. Only bask in it and reflect it back as best he could.
He pulled on his jeans and sneakers and headed for the car.
Awakening to this story is better than coffee. Amazing! I especially love the list of smells and the memories they elicit.
Brilliant storytelling sticks, vivid imagery, fantastic descriptions. Thanks for writing this sir