Morning coffee

“Give me a sip,” I told to the neatly dressed man who was pouring a transparent liquid in his paper coffee cup. He startled, holding the small glass flask mid-air. He looked at me even more puzzled as I saw him searching with his eyes a similar cup where he could deliver the cold fluid.

I was dressed as polished as him, which made us two smartasses hiding in the supermarket courtyard to conceal our sinful habit. He regained his posture, and now a handsome, self-asserted man stood tall in front of me. The dashing change was considerable, and I envied such mastery, which, I was sure, required years of practice.

“It will not do my friend, you cannot let yourself drink from a bottle like the homeless around the corner, have some dignity.” He finished emptying the bottle in his cup, then he took out a milk carton and after lifting its bottom he slid with a deft movement the empty flask inside the hollow packaging.

“Clever,” I said. I could not help but admire him, even though he left me dry. I stretched out my hand and attempted to reach to his cup. He took a step backwards, looking at me with firm eyes.

“The problem is not the drinking, I tell you. But how you do it.” He took a sip from his coffee where I knew the sweet nectar was diffusing its invigorating essence, while he kept his eyes straight on my face, as if to make sure that I would not jump to snatch its hideous cup.

I wanted to, but I had no energy left. It took me all my strength to prepare myself for another dauting day of lying and faking. I felt out of breath all the time, exhausted by the need to hide the real me. I hated him. I hated him for looking so acceptable, so controlled and sure of himself and yet indulging in the same craving, which was dismantling my life, drop by drop.

Without uttering another word, he turned and left me there, a dried man in the wind, dry in his mouth, dry in his soul.


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