Brain Games

24. Parole

My alarm clock may as well be a fog horn, startling me awake from the best sleep I've gotten the last few days. Blindly smacking around, I'm able to silence the small annoying device, burying my head into the pillow for ten more seconds before forcing myself to get up.

I pull myself out of bed, my body feeling fifty pounds heavier with sleep, and shove my glasses over my closed eyes. Fully acquainted with my apartment, I'm able to navigate my way to the kitchen blind, my eyes too heavy to open this early in the morning.

I shuffle to my beloved coffee maker and press all the buttons from muscle memory to make it start humming to life without even opening an eye. The normal gurgle it makes is music to my ears.

Until it makes an unbearable grinding sound, causing my eyes to pop wide open.

I'm immediately jolted awake, finding my coffee maker sputtering out little to no contents.

"No, no, no," I mutter, giving the old machine a few smacks while sanctimoniously hitting random buttons, praying it'll come back to life. After five minutes of wresting with it with no luck, I decide to call it.

Time of death: 6:12 a.m.

With a heavyhearted sigh and foggy brain–emphasis on foggy brain–I do the only thing I can think of at the moment.

In dire need of coffee, I grab my mug in one hand and creamer in the other, marching myself one door over. Out of curiosity, I twist the handle to find it locked, of course.

Tucking the creamer under my arm, I use my now free hand to knock. After ten seconds of no reply, I pound harder, with purpose. About seven seconds later, a surprised, winded looking Brad answers the door, his dark hair and bare chest wet, only a towel adorning his waist.

"Coffee," is all I mutter, brushing past him to his kitchen.

He closes the door behind me and follows, his clean and cool scent pungent, having just gotten out of the shower.

I quickly scan his apartment, noting all the dark furniture and accents. His apartment is so modern, minimal, and clean it may as well be an IKEA display. It hardly looks like anyone lives here.

I instantly find his single serve, fancier than necessary coffee machine neatly nestled in the corner of the kitchen counter. Staring at all the buttons, my brain seems to stall.

"Here," Brad says, gently moving me out of the way. He grabs my mug and places it under the spout, pressing a few buttons. The machine hardly makes a sound as it processes and begins pouring out coffee.

When the mug is full, I can't seem to get it into my hands soon enough. Grabbing my creamer, I add a hefty splash until the liquid is a light brown. Now I just need to stir...

"Shit," I curse under my breath. I forgot a spoon.

I've always wanted to invest in one of those cool self-stirring mugs, the ones where you just press a button on the handle and it magically starts stirring by itself, but I always talked myself out of it, saying I don't need it. Look where trying to be responsible got me.

Sensing my dilemma, Brad comes up behind me, his bare chest radiating heat onto my back. He reaches around, opening the drawer to the right that holds his silverware, plucking out a spoon and offering it to me.

"Thanks," I mumble, taking the spoon and stirring, watching the small whirl pool mix the coffee with the creamer evenly. When it's settled, I take a tentative sip, then another, humming in content as the warm liquid gold starts running through my veins, making me feel a little more alive.

Brad places his palms on the counter, his arms bracketing me from behind. "Good?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

I hum in response, closing my eyes in coffee filled bliss, my lips sealed to the cup.