She’s late again. I’m guessing she has: (a) stood me up on purpose; or (b) forgotten all about our breakfast date. I’m going for (b). Marina, brilliant as she is, has the tendency to be scatterbrained.
Pity. Maybe that’s the reason why she can’t find a job yet. Wait, did I just think that thought out? How mean of me. But then again, I do turn into a monster when I’ve been kept waiting for too long.
I stare into my empty coffee cup. The porcelain is stained with the froth from my long-finished cappuccino. It’s been an hour and a half already. Face it, Eddy. She isn’t coming.
I contemplate ordering The Bean’s latest special. Perhaps the sugar and the caffeine would give my mood a much-needed power up. I raise my left hand, high enough for the barista to see. “Give me a shot of The Saturday Froth, Cindy! Thanks!”
The rosy girl in the earth brown uniform throws me nod and starts whipping my order up. I watch, trying to see if I could identify the ingredients going into my cup. Expresso. Low fat milk. Chocolate bits. Hazelnut syrup. Muscovado sugar. Whipped cream. A special topping. Seems appetizing enough.
Cindy grabs some serviettes, after which she brings me The Saturday Froth. She gives me a cheery smile. “Enjoy!”
I take the stirrer I used for my cappuccino and pick at the whipped cream. I take a syrup-stained dollop, bring the small helping into my mouth, and let the sweetness roll around in my tongue. It’s surprisingly good.
My insides suddenly feel warm, like I’ve just drunk an entire bottle of wine. I sense a strange heat rising up my stomach, up my chest, up my throat, all the way up to my head. But my hair — how could I feel my hair? — it seems cold, like I’ve just stuck it inside the refrigerator. What did Cindy put in my coffee?
I blank out for a moment or two. The next thing I know, someone’s grabbing my right elbow. I’m being yanked up into the air and —
Wait a minute. How is it possible that I’m being brought so high up?
“I can not believe his nerve. Did you see the way he looked at her? And I was right there. Standing in front of him.”
“Chill, girl. He’s so not worth it. You deserve someone better.”
“Ugh. He makes me so mad.“
A pair of cherry-red lips touch my forehead, leaving its tell-tale stain behind. I feel my feet touch solid ground once again.
Images of giant beetles and larger than life bosoms begin to swirl around my head. Kafka, Roth — I remember these authors from a humanities class back in college. Could it be? I try to feel around for my other arm, I try to make out my head, my torso, my legs…
But alas. It seems as if the unthinkable has come true.
I’ve turned into a coffee cup.