Habits (Part 4)

"I had developed a taste." 

And it was gourmet, epicurean rather. 

But it was all for nigh, alone.

The bitter taste of the blackened brew in front of me felt a bit off. 

What had changed?  

Not much, really. 

It was still the same powder I used, mixed with the same water that I had always drank, in even the same crystal mug that I so adored. Why then, did it feel so repugnant? 

I poured all the coffee down the sink. The silver grey steel clanked as the water splashed against it, bickering down the drainage pipes. In the dead silence of the night, it made a loud racket. But it was fine, I was alone.

I rinsed the cup, the warm water running in ellipses between my calloused fingertips. It was disgusting, the water. Warm enough to not be refreshing and cold enough to not be comforting. It felt like touching the insides of someone's mouth, the saliva coating the palms, digits snuggling the slimy epithelium, as the person gagged on your fingers chocking their only way to breat-

"Stop." 

I commanded myself, audibly. 

I wasn't in the best state to ponder over such abhorrent and futile trains of thought. As of recent, I'd find myself spacing out and think about such scenarios. And, I did not appreciate this lapse of consciousness.

I closed the spout and the water trickled to a stop. I poured in some new water from the filter. Against the slightly yellowed crystal surface, it looked like piss. I chuckled, mirthlessly. It sounded awful. Thin, squeaky, devoid of any worthwhile emotion. 

The chuckle ceased to silence again, and I hated myself for trying to make a sound in the first place. 

I tore open the cachet of coffee with my teeth, spilling some on the dark granite countertop in the process. Cursing silently, I gathered it all into the mug, my hand my only guide, since the coffee camouflaged itself well on against the brown-black surface. 

Dusting away the whatever remained of the powder on my hand, I took a spoon and stirred the water. 

A fine white layer formed on the top of the coffee. It danced, in its brownian rhythm and I stared. Exquisite, sensual, and enchanting. I stood there, in the dim kitchen light, from the chimney, a spectator to the primal dance. But like all things, it settled, and I looked up. 

Again, I had spaced out. 

Again, I gulped the whole mug down in one barbaric motion. 

Again, it all felt empty.

Again, the bitter taste on my tongue felt worthless.

Again, I picked up the little green kitchen knife and headed to the bathroom.

And again, as the water I turned on enveloped all the sounds I made, it made sense.

It made sense, and I understood that what was missing was the other half of the ensemble. The music was incomplete without the two of them in harmony.

The bitterness enshrined the reincarnated blossom turning crimson, and I threw my head back in ecstasy.

It was tranquil.