Two Lumps of Sugar
A Memoir of Friendship and Heartbreak
I pour a drop of cream into your espresso and two lumps of sugar into mine. It makes a satisfying “plunk” sound. There is just enough foam on top for me to etch a Grecian symbol for infinity. The cookie tin is almost empty, but the almond thins leave a fragrance I remember from childhood.
You’re here because I can’t get him out of my head. It turns out, he is no good for me and doesn’t want to be with me. I’m not able to cut the ties completely and you’re here to remind me what an unprincipled scoundrel he is. It doesn’t take much to convince me that I don’t really want to be with someone who doesn’t want to be with me. Still, toying with obsession stalks my mind. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts.
I don’t want to be alone. Period.
The jaundiced apartment needs repair.
The place is falling apart and the cracks in the ceiling need to be plastered before the whole thing caves in on me. In a way, those cracks remind me of my own scars, the ones that need to heal.
Maybe karma can mend a broken heart, I tell myself, as I picture him being dumped by her, this time. Her, the one who stole his heart from mine. If karma brings any semblance of justice, then maybe I can dispense with these ridiculous fantasies, like picturing my foot on the gas pedal just narrowly swerving past her bony ass, just to scare her. The way I feel scared.
I wish someone would smack some sense into me.
It wouldn’t hurt or sting, though. I’m too numb for that. Does a stone feel it when you slap it hard or pound its brains out? Do rocks have brains? Do brains get numb? Like my brain feels right now…I know he won’t come crawling back. I’ve been screwed over and I wouldn’t take him back anyway, I keep telling myself.
You drag the chair away unceremoniously from the table I found on Wayfair or Overstock, I can’t remember exactly which, and it makes a sudden noise that brings me back to our spilled cups of espresso. Except that I notice the stubble on your face and remember how much I prefer you clean shaven.
We sip, as we talk.
I was weaned on espresso.
For this I blame my well-meaning grandparents. My nonna prepared it for my grandfather, and he would spoon feed me on the sly, some of the dark, semi-bitter liquid, then treat me to a bite of a soft anisette cookie. I was a wee one, but the espresso worked like rocket fuel and hyped up my energy. Soon my body craved it. This was not a good or desired thing for a young child, affecting my mood and sleep cycle.
My parents would hear me crawl out of bed and make it to the living room to watch late night television. They were already in their bedroom and assumed I would be fast asleep.
Perhaps this is the reason I became such a night owl. When poppa found me by the light of the night tv, he would banish me to my room, with me crying, screaming, kicking and throwing tantrums. This insane scene would occur on a nightly basis, even when I was not in an expresso-induced state.
I learned how to tune the sound of the television voices to an extremely low volume, in an attempt to fool my parents. They were far too smart for that.
Today, the espresso rekindles a bond of friendship between the two of us.
You, smelling like crisp linen and fresh lemongrass. You, reassuring my sorry self that there are plenty of fish left in the ocean.
Telling me that I’ll survive. That there is someone more perfect for me out there in this big, bad, convoluted world. More wonderful. More broken, just like me. I give you the customary side-eye and pish at the blatant cliche with a nonchalant retort on how there is always more than one way to skin a cat.
I wouldn’t mind if you brushed that stray hair from my eyes so I could see things a little more clearly.
We laugh like we did back in college, and I invite you to stay for dinner, somehow ignoring the weird voices in my head echoing that we should never step out of our quilted best friend zone. That we should never play the games I’ve heard lovers do. That we should be each other’s rock.
I don an apron and we toast the night.
The scrambled, unscrewable, fortressed night.
© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.
