NIKKI & JOE, CASUALLY | updates every monday

35: george clooney and the hermit walk into a bar and kill you

            I never reckoned that making coffee could be akin to rocket science but after a full four minutes of tryna figure out where the Nespresso capsule goes, I'm about ready to hand my uni diploma right back. What would George Clooney do—other than stand around and look sexy? "What else?" you ask. How about an instruction manual, George.

The light on the waffle iron flicks to green and I abandon the gingerbread-flavoured pod beside the machine to open the iron. I stack the waffles onto the growing pile, pour in new batter, and return to the coffee machine.

My phone died overnight (or overmorning, I suppose considering we didn't even sleep until five)—otherwise, I'd've obviously googled it. I've pressed every bloody button I've found on this thing!

Just as I'm about to give up, I accidentally nudge the lever that opens the top, the previous capsule sliding into the bin at the back of the machine. I deposit the new one into the slot and take another minute to figure out how to shut it again.

Once I've finally managed to brew the coffee and garnish the freshest waffles with banana, raspberries I find from the freezer, and maple syrup, I look for a tray. I add a glass of orange juice and take it to the bedroom.

It's past noon and the earth tones of Joe's bedroom are bright in the daylight—we clearly forgot to shut the blinds last night and I can only hope there were no neighbours who happened to be getting an early morning glass of water. She's sound asleep even with the sun blanketed on her.

I shouldn't be seeing her like this, her cheek debossed with the creases of her pillow, relaxed in blissful sleep. I shouldn't've slept over. I shouldn't've come in. I should have wished her sweet dreams and had a nice cold walk home.

The light kisses her skin where my lips were mere hours ago, though that now feels like an impossibility—a dream or an alternative reality. Or maybe it just feels fucking idiotic because the feelings were supposed to be fading.

I were supposed to get her out of my system but, surprisingly, affection ain't stored in my balls because it definitely didn't get washed out with my come. An imaginary gif of Caleb's eye twitching arises in my mind.

Roused by the smell of coffee, Joe stirs and once her eyes crack open, the sun pierces right through to slice sleep away. She stays groggy for a moment, watching me in wonder as I leave the breakfast on her desk to fetch the fold-out bamboo laptop tray to place in front of her.

'Morning.' I resist the urge to kiss her cheek.

Joe's stare drills through the waffles as she saws her white topaz pendant back and forth on its chain. 'What is this?' I'm confused by her shrill voice before realisation dawns on me.

'No! It's not– I didn't mean– Friendship. Totally casual friendship waffles. I weren't tryna cross any boundaries. I'm gonna leave.'

I should've probably left when I woke up. I always reckoned sneaking out were rude, but based on experience, that seems to be the culturally accepted mode of action. She said I could sleep over because it were raining. Well, the sun is shining now. She never said owt about waking up together, did she?

If I had a pence for every idiotic thing I've done in the past twenty-four hours, I'd be a fucking billionaire.

But I've barely turned to my trousers before Joe interrupts. 'Stay. I didn't mean it like that.' I'm slow to turn around but when I do, I find her smiling. She nods at the breakfast. 'I appreciate this but I really have to brush my teeth first. I'm sorry–'

'That's alright.'

Caleb is like that too. If he were kidnapped and held for ransom, he still wouldn't eat if he weren't given toothpaste and a brush. When we lived together, I brought him breakfast in bed every birthday though he'd always get up to brush his teeth anyway. I asked if he'd prefer I set breakfast at the table instead and he threatened to castrate me if I dared.