Coffee Machine

A Fish

The mornings have become monotonous; plain and purposeless. Yet here I sit amidst a heap of black covers, eyes fixed on the grey wall that lies ahead of me. How many people have lived here before me? How many people have made memories here? They certainly had to have had lives more meaningful than this one.

I look down. Each leg is still here, still in place, not gone like I had feared the night prior. They're shaky but they hold my weight as I slowly rise, heading under the peeling paint on my doorway down the creaky steps and straight into the kitchen where I am greeted by the same old dirty countertop.

Disgusting. When was the last time I had bothered to clean? I rack my brain for memories, but none seem to come through. My cat cries from where she stands on the floor, begging for food. Have I been forgetting that, too? She seems more sapless than she used to be. I decide that I'm going to take better care of her from now on.

The kitchen is silent, save for the quiet crunching of cat food and my own feet on the cold floor. The cabinet door creaks as I slowly push it open, hastily grabbing the first mug I find. I don't check to see whether or not I've washed it recently - I just place it on the counter and search for the coffee that suits my mood today. Though, my mood is mostly the same every day. I suppose it doesn't matter all that much.

There's movement in the corner of my eye. It's quick and dark and I brush it off. My mind is acting up again. But still, it continues. I look to the side and I stare upon such a sight I would have never expected to see: a fish in the coffee machine. There is a black fish with graceful, translucent fins and glossy eyes staring back at me, and it's in my coffee machine. It swims around in the reservoir, the water appearing a dull blue color thanks to the tinted plastic that holds it. It puts me at ease.

Then I wonder. I stop and wonder if I'm seeing things. I decide I am, but it seems real and I can't look away. I blink once. Twice. It's still not gone.

"Hello." I find myself saying, "It must be lonely in there." I pause. "I'm sorry."

I stare at the creature. I want to help it desperately. What can I do? It continues to swim and it makes me awfully upset. I don't know why. Maybe the lack of sleep is getting to me.

"You're very beautiful, you know that?" I speak aloud again. I don't know what to do with myself. But I do know one thing: I want to keep this fish.

"How would you like a bigger space?" I say again, albeit knowing I'm never going to get a response. Running upstairs, I hastily throw on random articles of clothing that I know probably need to be washed but I don't care.

My feet pull me a rather long way to a pet store. I pick up the things I need and stagger back home. I feel exhausted today.

As I step further into my house, I slide on the smooth floor of the kitchen, the holes in my socks exposing my feet and slowing me down. The cat gets startled. I apologize in my head, but I run over to the coffee machine. There's nothing there anymore.

My heart drops. What now? It seems like the one time I get my hopes up, nothing works out in the end.

I check the machine one last time and even debate sticking my hand in the water to be sure the fish is really gone before I start to brew my coffee. I confirm that no, nothing is there, and I hear the familiar whirring sound as I eye the stream of the beverage falling into my mug.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Nothing is going to change today.