Mr. Floyd and a Cup of Coffee
The coffee was getting colder. The undulations inside the plastic cup seemed to make a mockery out of his situation. It isn’t coincidental, thought Mr. Floyd. The red brownish waves had engulfed his whole cognition while he started to feel short of breaths. He felt morbid of the vicinity. It was loathsome, he reflected. He bursts with rage and shouted, “I gave you my love but you want my soul”.
The corner of his eyes became narrower; his lower lip started trembling while his left leg twitched in an orderly fashion, up and down repeatedly. He was growing an anxious yet terrified self who was uncertain of the future and despicable of the present. His heart beat was pacing and was oddly uneven. He wanted to escape this reality but he was reluctant to leave. It was his determination to put an end to this misery. He wanted to face the melancholy of human relationships and its auxiliaries.
How much should I run? Every crisis was a sprint for him. A race. Away from the misery of the world and into a virtual world of television, books and movies and never ending musings into the mind of rich and famous people where the wretchedness of human association would not bother him. All humans were same to him. Senseless and unworthy of his love. Attachments gave way to such abstractions which would later but always mould his mind into believing that it was a cruel world out there. His mind strayed constantly.
Ah! Abstractions, he thought, “Why am I so judgmental every time? I need to change.” He was always ready for a change but pessimists and drunkards never change. His leg jerked incessantly and rapidly.
Floyd hears a sweet cracking voice followed by sobs which are suppressed in a way which deceives the listener to apprehend that the “sobs” were meant to be concealed. An art of deception to gain sympathy. He felt sympathetic. The voice was successful. He believed that it was the stammering of guilt. The stuttering of guilt and determination combined. It spoke, “Please consider my position. I want to marry you but it’s my mother. You are broke and you feel naively that employment is a 21st century invention!” The voice stops.
Mr. Floyd looks at the coffee again. The undulations have succumbed into a perfect still. He feels angry at this mockery. He resents the cold of the coffee. No warmth or desire. He thinks, even a cup of coffee ridicules me now. The voice and the sugar free coffee seemed to be in constant harmony. This was no abstraction.
Ruminating at the plastic coffee cup to which he now asserted with his dry voice, “Women! You make highs higher and lows more lower”.