Coffee and Cream

Emrys' World

EMRYS

The weather was cold as usual, the lines sometimes blurred if it was just me or because of where I lived—on a cliff, by the ocean. My house was like a refrigerator despite the multiple fireplaces and heaters. But it was cozy enough for me, every time I stepped out of my fortress, I longed to be back here. It was the only thing that felt like me.

I flung the rotten tomato in the waste bin, I had forgotten to put it back in the fridge. I pulled another out.

I stood in the kitchen with my sleeves rolled up to my elbows, moving with methodical precision. The chicken sizzled in the pan, the rich aroma of soy and ginger mingling in the air as the heat caramelized the sauce. My knife glided through the fresh vegetables—crisp bell peppers, onions, tomato, and carrots—each slice echoing faintly in the quiet room, it was satisfying.

My movements were deliberate, almost surgical, as I tossed the chopped vegetables in the pan, watching them soften and meld with glossy teriyaki glaze.

In the background, the gentle strains of classical music floated through the air, the soft strings creating a counterbalance to the crackling sounds of cooking. It was a violin concerto, slow and melancholic, each note like a drop of water rippling through my thoughts. The music calmed me, smoothing out the sharp edges of my mind in a way few things could. I listened to the way the notes curled and lingered, each rise and fall mirroring the quiet control I had over the preparation of the dish before me.

The noodles boiled gently in the pot beside me, their soft bubbling merging with the hum of the music, I found myself lost in the soothing synchrony. It was strange how this simple act—preparing food, surrounded by the sound of strings—had such a grounding effect. The world was on mute and all I had was the hiss of the pan, the steam rising from the noodles, and the slow, haunting melody that filled the room.

I stirred the noodles in with the chicken and vegetables, the sauce coating everything in a glossy sheen. It was so zen, and relaxing. The music swelled in the background, the violins reaching their crescendo just as I plated the dishes.

As if on cue, my alarm alerted me that someone was approaching my home. I dried my hands with a napkin to get the remote that opened the door so my girlfriend could come in.

"Hey, baby." I greeted as she walked into the kitchen.

"Hey... what are we eating? It smells so good," she asked me peeking into the pot.

I turned off the music. That was the end of that moment.

"Chicken teriyaki noodles. We need all the energy." I joked.

She smacked my chest playfully and took the plates to the dining area.

*******

I moved my body in rhythm with hers, our shared heat doing little to stir any real passion within me. My room was dimly lit, the soft rustling of the sheets the on,y sound beyond our breathing, but it felt hollow to me, empty. Isabelle clung to me, her lips moving against my neck, her hands pulling me closer, but the connection felt thin, and superficial. I knew these moments by heart—the rise and fall of our bodies, the practiced sounds she made as though we were following a script—there was nothing.

My mind wandered, drifting away from the familiar curves beneath me, she moved as though this moment should matter. It didn't—not anymore. It was routine, a chore disguised as pleasure, a pattern I was too tired to repeat with any real enthusiasm.

I slipped into the corners of my thoughts, Darcelle...

My breath caught for a moment, not from the woman underneath me, but from the vividness of the image in my mind—Darcelle. Her name alone sent a slow pulse of electricity running through me, waking something in me that Isabelle never could. I could see her clearly, standing just behind my eyes,. The curve of her lips, her intense gaze—dark, unflinching, knowing.

The thought of my ladybug spread through me, feeding the hunger I often kept chained down. I imagined her underneath me instead, her breathless laughter curling around my ear like smoke, her nails digging into my skin out of shared danger. The thought of her, pulled me deeper into myself, until Isabelle became inconsequential beneath me, little more than a placeholder for what I truly craved.

My movements quickened, but not for the woman I was with. It was Darcelle I could feel now, her moves, her moans, her words, her wild fascinations with the macabre that matched mine in ways that terrified and excited me. My pulse quickened as I imagined her daring me to go further, to push boundaries that Isabelle couldn't begin to imagine.

I felt the weight of my girlfriend's hands against my back, her soft voice murmuring things I couldn't register but I grunted in response. I heard Darcelle in my head, teasing, challenging, dark. It was her smile I saw when I closed my eyes, her body arching beneath mine, her eyes filled not with love, but with the same dangerous hunger and desire I had.

The sex with Isabelle went on, but in my mind, it had already ended. My body was present but my soul was elsewhere, tangled in thoughts of a woman who made him feel alive in a way no one else ever had.

*********

I noticed her the moment she walked in. It was hard not to. Darcelle had that careless ease about her—like she was blind to how hot she was, or maybe she just didn't give a damn. Today, she wore a band tee that hung loose on her small frame, leggings that hugged her legs, flaunting her thick thighs, and those chunky black boots she always had on, like she was ready for a fight. She was juggling a couple of books in her arms and cup of coffee, her cap pulled low over a red weave. An effortless, thrown-together look.

I flicked my pen between my fingers, eyes trailing her as she made her way to her usual spot beside Nathan, her best friend, the outcast like her. Neither of them tried to fit in. It was intentional, like they reveled in their isolation from the crowd. I respected that. I wasn't friends with Nathan—wasn't in my orbit at all. I saw the way people whispered about them—Darcelle and Nathan, they assumed they were together. I knew better. Nathan, I'd noticed had a thing for older women, like that married school librarian in her forties. Darcelle? She had a thing for guys like me, though she didn't seem to know it yet.

She dropped into her seat, pouring something from a small flask into her black coffee—alcohol, probably—and I watched with a faint smile tugging at my lips as Nathan chastised her, his voice low but familiar. They bickered like siblings, the way Nathan leaned into her space but never crossed a line. I chewed my gum slowly, my hoodie's drawstring brushing my chin, hands stuffed in my pocket. My eyes flicked between them, more interested in Darcedlle's half-lidded smirk than Nathan's disapproving look.

From behind me, Topher's arm hooked around my neck, jerking me out of my thoughts. "Yo, man," Topher grinned, sliding into the seat next to me. "Still on for game night?"

I nodded, giving a half-smile. "Yeah, invite whoever." My eyes wandered back to Darcelle, just in time to catch her cupping Nathan's face, sticking out her tongue like she was daring him to react. Nathan recoiled, scrunching his face up like a scolded puppy, but they were both laughing. I wasn't sure if I liked the way they were together. It wasn't jealousy—not exactly—but it was something territorial that sparked in me.

My gaze hardened for a second, the feeling passing as the lecturer walked in, cutting their interaction short. Nathan and Darcelle pulled apart, chuckling under their breaths. Topher leaned over, muttering with a laugh, "Those two need to get a room."

I didn't respond. I pretended like I hadn't heard, flipping open my textbook like the conversation didn't interest me. But as soon as I started scribbling down notes, my mind wandered back to Darcelle, to the way her laughter sounded, careless and wild.