The Ink In-Between: An Anthology

Bittersweet Fate

PROMPT: Write a story about soulmates that features a beverage (ex. coffee). 

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It's become a habit for Kessie.

Wake up, roll onto her back and stare up at the ceiling.

It's like a little game, trying to figure out where she is just by what she can see up there in the shadows of the room, the patterns and the cracks, the type of lighting and the design, or lack thereof. Is this her old apartment? Her new one? A hotel room? Or someone else's home? Someone else's bed.

Regardless if it's her place or not, Kessie still often finds herself having to gently detangle herself from the warm, sweaty, naked bodies sleeping soundly next to her.

She makes it a point to wake up first.

Sure, she might whisper heated confessions about "not wanting to be alone" late at night, in the cold cover of darkness. But in the early morning hours, Kessie prefers her own company.

It's part of the routine, to camp out at the kitchen (or hotel lounge) and spend a couple of minutes blindly searching through cabinets and drawers. Because whether it's her place or not, she never quite seems to know where anything is. But it's okay, she enjoys even that part of it. And, besides, she really only needs one thing in the morning.

No, not eggs, or bread. Not milk, or cereal, either.

Just coffee.

Black. No flavours, no sugar. Just one cup of the hottest, most bitter coffee she can make (or order) to wake herself up. She can't start the day without it.

And as she waits for her coffee to brew, she'll stare at her left hand. She can do that for hours, if no one is there to anchor her or call her back to the shores of reality.

But, thankfully, she's rarely alone. One of those warm bodies will eventually wake up. They'll sneak up behind her, wrap long or short arms around her shoulders, maybe kiss the back of her neck. They'll ask her what she's looking at.

Often she'll lie. Say it's nothing. That she's just lost in thought.

But sometimes she's in the mood, and tells the truth.

She tells them about the markings on the back of her hand. Symbols, drawn in abstract strokes, like letters, small and dark, darker than her own black skin. Rows and rows of them, starting from her fingers, all the way up to her wrist, sometimes beyond, up to her elbow, or even up to her shoulder.

Each symbol is distinct and etched deep into her skin, unremovable, like a permanent tattoo. Except, not really, because, unlike tattoos, these marks change on their own.

Most of them don't stay long. Some grow darker, thicker, but most just fade away to a light mark, barely there, or they'll disappear altogether. They shift, they move, they grow, they shrink, they vanish. They change. Always changing.

But no one knows that. Because no one but Kessie herself can see them. To other people, her hand is the same blank slate as everyone else's, nothing there but some blemishes and scars.

And Kessie can't find it in her to blame anyone that accuses her of lying, or assume that she's messing with them. Or for thinking that she might need to check her brain for anomalies. Maybe she does. She's not really sure herself, to be honest.

Still, some of her partners have actually decided to humor her in the past. They ask her what the markings mean, and if they have them too.

When that happens, Kessie smiles. She picks up their hands, big or small, and checks their markings. Most of the time, she'll spot it. That one mark, the one unique symbol that they have in common.