Waving Not Drowning

It takes too long to steam the milk, so she pours it into the coffee straight from the fridge. Makes for a tepid cup, but she finishes it in a few long pulls. Good enough. The fridge is brand new, as is the stove. So is the bathroom sink and toilet. The last tenant died here so they did a complete overhaul on the apartment, including new floors and paint job. Sometimes it's easier to tear it all down and start over. She wasn't expecting this. Sometimes life throws you a curveball; you're thinking fastball and up you go. Counts 3 and 2, runner on 2nd, one out, bottom of the 6th. Ten more outs to go. You've got this. Head down. Keep on swinging. He would have been 19 this May. Christopher Harrison Jude. So many birth names. Never a battle she wanted to wage so everyone got their pick. He crowned and then stopped when she was giving birth as if to say, wait- I don't know- I just- I don't belong here. His first attempt was grade 9. Teams we...

Bleary eyed and shuffling with the sound of roller bags and flips flops snapping at her heels. Early morning flights make her queasy. Not enough time to wake up and get sorted before she's out the door, under fed, discombobulated. Triple checking to make sure her phone is charged. That it's with her and not in the cab. Again. Mike continues to threaten her with idiot strings for the case, like the ones she used to have on her mittens as a toddler. Keep it tethered to you, at all times, he says. She can't abide by the workmanlike construction clip he wears on his hip like some contractor on site, precariously dangling off the wide open precipice of the fourteenth floor. To coffee or not to coffee, that is the question. Rather, the ensuing result will be an extended bathroom break. Is there time before boarding? What's the aircraft? A 67 or a shitty dual prop, with cubby hole toilets she can't stand up in. Hence why she no longer wears heels while flying...

The texts keeps coming. Have tea with me. You should come meet me, really. You'll enjoy it. I'm good company, honest. We can talk physics and life on Mars and maybe even thoughts on dessert. She stares at the phone. The incessant glass chime sounds then sounds again. She's tempted to turn it off but then fears she may miss something of importance. Not necesarily from him, but from some one. Anyone else. Why is it so difficult to care, to muster any interest in anyone other than herself these days. She doesn't even find her own company that compelling right now. Stacks of fiction and periodicals line the floor beside her bed, stacked five high on the shelf above her headboard. So much to ingest, so many words, ideas, information. Read me, see me, take me in. She doesn't want to spend an hour of her life over tea with some young attractive physics student who used to lift weights for a living. Talking about space and the final frontiers as he angles a way into her pan...