August 5, 2013
The Coffee Wars 0
Francine opened her eyes hearing the last chimes of the clock on the landing. What time was it four, five? She looked over to the other bed, Art was on his back, snoring. She braced herself for the gagging gasp which usually woke him, but not yet, she didn’t want him awake yet. Reaching across to the other bed she poked him sharply, “Ahhh,” he mumbled, get off, dog!” It was years since they had a dog, he was really going off.
She checked the bedside clock’s big numbers, five o’clock, good, clambered out of bed, and staggering a bit until her knees kicked in, set off for the kitchen, time to get the coffee on. Carefully she measured the grounds, half caff, half decaff, and the water, up to the five cup mark. Excellent, she could down one now and still have two cups with Art for breakfast. She hid the decaff container behind the cleaning equipment under the sink; don’t want him finding that she said to herself. She took her blue and yellow mug, threw in an illicit sugar lump and a splash of milk and carried her coffee out into the garden. She strolled down to the bench by the garden shed. One quarter, three quarters last week, half, half this week; maybe if she could go on cutting his caffeine down gradually, Art would relax a bit. Maybe she would borrow their daughter’s dog for a while, that was supposed to be calming. She would tell him Jane had gone away for a few weeks, or, no, that would make him too anxious, where, when, arrangements, no, too busy at work, that would do, for a while anyway. She leaned back on the bench and shut her eyes. Bliss, no anxious questioning, no fretting over arrangements and times, just the birds twittering gently in the bushes, and the soft, quiet, damp feel of another morning.
The smell of brewed coffee drifted up the stairs and woke Art. He sat up quickly, it must be late, had he slept in? Impossible, he had secreted his alarm under his pillow so he could be up first and make the coffee. Now Francine must have made it, but what time was it for goodness sake? He checked the watch, five thirty? He looked over to the other empty bed. What was she doing up at five thirty and making coffee? Was she back in his work schedule when they had to get up at five and she would have his coffee ready for him in his red travel mug? She was really going off. He went downstairs into the kitchen, yes there was the coffee, he snatched up the pot and sniffed the brew suspiciously, just as he thought too weak. Francine always made it too weak. Coffee should be strong, robust, and full flavored. Irritably he poured away the pot and filled the coffee maker with water again to the four cup mark. Bending stiffly and groping under the counter where the pans were stored he pulled out his Robusto packet and measured generous scoops into the filter basket. Then he replaced the packet in its hiding place and placed their regular coffee from the refrigerator on the counter. Where was Francine anyway? He checked the bathroom and the utility room, no Francine. Really, what could she be doing at this time in the morning? Had she gone to fetch the paper at the bottom of the driveway, forgetting that they didn’t take the paper anymore? She forgot a lot these days, that’s why she should be drinking coffee as he made it, good and strong, “They say coffee is a neurological organizer.”
“Who says?” asked Francine coming in the back door, “What are you doing up so early? Did you think it was a work day again?”
“I only did that once.” he answered crossly, “and anyway where were you? Did you go to get the paper? And why are you up so early?
“Art, we don’t take the paper anymore – you stopped it, remember? I was just in the garden, drink your coffee and relax.”
Art poured the coffee and drank his; Francine sipped hers, “Ugh,” she said, “why do you make it so strong? We might as well have breakfast since we’re up. Aren’t you playing golf today?”
“Hayden is picking me up at ten o’clock, plenty of time. Finish your coffee while I get ready.”
Francine waited until she heard the shower running then she poured away a third of the coffee in the pot and added hot water. She laid out the breakfast, yogurt, muesli and fruit and two slices of whole wheat for Art. She poured herself half a cup of the new weaker coffee and sat down at the breakfast counter.
Art came back dressed in his sports attire and began his breakfast. He switched on the traffic program, speculating on the cause of a major hold up on the circular road. He got out his GPS and began loading the golf club address, analyzing the best route for Hayden. “As if you don’t know where you’re going,” said Francine exasperated, “you’ve been going to the same place every week since we moved here. It’s very rude to have your GPS playing when you’re not the driver. Harold will be offended.’
“His name’s Hayden, not Harold, you’re having trouble with names, lately, dear. I’m just checking some alternate routes, the circular road hold up is bound to spill over onto local streets, I don’t want to miss
our slot.” He poured out the rest of the coffee and drank it off, “Doesn’t hold up well, this stuff, I might make another pot later on.”
Francine went to shower and get dressed. She tidied up the bathroom and made the beds. She laid out Art’s wallet, keys and club pass, and his jacket and stood at the window for a long time watching for Hayden.
She came down when she heard the car; she could hear Art talking in the driveway organizing the golf club stowage. He had made another pot of coffee, she poured it into a flask, he could take it with him.
Two hours later they called from the golf club to say he had had a turn and was being taken to the hospital. Francine got a taxi and rushed into the emergency wing. Art was sitting up, wired up for various screens and checking them constantly.
“We’re going to keep him overnight,’ said the doctor, “just a precaution, his heart beat was a little fast, when he was brought in. He should be fine by tomorrow, but we’ll watch him just in case.” She smiled and hurried away.
Francine waited with him until the nurse came to take him to the ward.
“How will you get back?” asked Art.
“Harold will collect me,” said Francine.
“Hayden, you mean, you always forget his name.”
Harold, his name is Harold Hayden, I ought to know, she said to herself on the way out, he has been my lover for twenty years, I know his name.
“All OK, then?” asked Harold as they got into his car.
“Fine,” said Francine, “it must have been the coffee.”
The Coffee Wars
Francine opened her eyes hearing the last chimes of the clock on the landing. What time was it four, five? She looked over to the other bed, Art was on his back, snoring. She braced herself for the gagging gasp which usually woke him, but not yet, she didn’t want him awake yet. Reaching across to the other bed she poked him sharply, “Ahhh,” he mumbled, get off, dog!” It was years since they had a dog, he was really going off.
She checked the bedside clock’s big numbers, five o’clock, good, clambered out of bed, and staggering a bit until her knees kicked in, set off for the kitchen, time to get the coffee on. Carefully she measured the grounds, half caff, half decaff, and the water, up to the five cup mark. Excellent, she could down one now and still have two cups with Art for breakfast. She hid the decaff container behind the cleaning equipment under the sink; don’t want him finding that she said to herself. She took her blue and yellow mug, threw in an illicit sugar lump and a splash of milk and carried her coffee out into the garden. She strolled down to the bench by the garden shed. One quarter, three quarters last week, half, half this week; maybe if she could go on cutting his caffeine down gradually, Art would relax a bit. Maybe she would borrow their daughter’s dog for a while, that was supposed to be calming. She would tell him Jane had gone away for a few weeks, or, no, that would make him too anxious, where, when, arrangements, no, too busy at work, that would do, for a while anyway. She leaned back on the bench and shut her eyes. Bliss, no anxious questioning, no fretting over arrangements and times, just the birds twittering gently in the bushes, and the soft, quiet, damp feel of another morning.
The smell of brewed coffee drifted up the stairs and woke Art. He sat up quickly, it must be late, had he slept in? Impossible, he had secreted his alarm under his pillow so he could be up first and make the coffee. Now Francine must have made it, but what time was it for goodness sake? He checked the watch, five thirty? He looked over to the other empty bed. What was she doing up at five thirty and making coffee? Was she back in his work schedule when they had to get up at five and she would have his coffee ready for him in his red travel mug? She was really going off. He went downstairs into the kitchen, yes there was the coffee, he snatched up the pot and sniffed the brew suspiciously, just as he thought too weak. Francine always made it too weak. Coffee should be strong, robust, and full flavored. Irritably he poured away the pot and filled the coffee maker with water again to the four cup mark. Bending stiffly and groping under the counter where the pans were stored he pulled out his Robusto packet and measured generous scoops into the filter basket. Then he replaced the packet in its hiding place and placed their regular coffee from the refrigerator on the counter. Where was Francine anyway? He checked the bathroom and the utility room, no Francine. Really, what could she be doing at this time in the morning? Had she gone to fetch the paper at the bottom of the driveway, forgetting that they didn’t take the paper anymore? She forgot a lot these days, that’s why she should be drinking coffee as he made it, good and strong, “They say coffee is a neurological organizer.”
“Who says?” asked Francine coming in the back door, “What are you doing up so early? Did you think it was a work day again?”
“I only did that once.” he answered crossly, “and anyway where were you? Did you go to get the paper? And why are you up so early?
“Art, we don’t take the paper anymore – you stopped it, remember? I was just in the garden, drink your coffee and relax.”
Art poured the coffee and drank his; Francine sipped hers, “Ugh,” she said, “why do you make it so strong? We might as well have breakfast since we’re up. Aren’t you playing golf today?”
“Hayden is picking me up at ten o’clock, plenty of time. Finish your coffee while I get ready.”
Francine waited until she heard the shower running then she poured away a third of the coffee in the pot and added hot water. She laid out the breakfast, yogurt, muesli and fruit and two slices of whole wheat for Art. She poured herself half a cup of the new weaker coffee and sat down at the breakfast counter.
Art came back dressed in his sports attire and began his breakfast. He switched on the traffic program, speculating on the cause of a major hold up on the circular road. He got out his GPS and began loading the golf club address, analyzing the best route for Hayden. “As if you don’t know where you’re going,” said Francine exasperated, “you’ve been going to the same place every week since we moved here. It’s very rude to have your GPS playing when you’re not the driver. Harold will be offended.’
“His name’s Hayden, not Harold, you’re having trouble with names, lately, dear. I’m just checking some alternate routes, the circular road hold up is bound to spill over onto local streets, I don’t want to miss
our slot.” He poured out the rest of the coffee and drank it off, “Doesn’t hold up well, this stuff, I might make another pot later on.”
Francine went to shower and get dressed. She tidied up the bathroom and made the beds. She laid out Art’s wallet, keys and club pass, and his jacket and stood at the window for a long time watching for Hayden.
She came down when she heard the car; she could hear Art talking in the driveway organizing the golf club stowage. He had made another pot of coffee, she poured it into a flask, he could take it with him.
Two hours later they called from the golf club to say he had had a turn and was being taken to the hospital. Francine got a taxi and rushed into the emergency wing. Art was sitting up, wired up for various screens and checking them constantly.
“We’re going to keep him overnight,’ said the doctor, “just a precaution, his heart beat was a little fast, when he was brought in. He should be fine by tomorrow, but we’ll watch him just in case.” She smiled and hurried away.
Francine waited with him until the nurse came to take him to the ward.
“How will you get back?” asked Art.
“Harold will collect me,” said Francine.
“Hayden, you mean, you always forget his name.”
Harold, his name is Harold Hayden, I ought to know, she said to herself on the way out, he has been my lover for twenty years, I know his name.
“All OK, then?” asked Harold as they got into his car.
“Fine,” said Francine, “it must have been the coffee.”
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