Page 40 of Nocturnes & Nightmares

“Sure.” I step aside, allowing him into the house, and direct him toward the kitchen. “Let me just fire up the Caffeine Machine, as I call it.” My dad went all out a year into his retirement and bought a crazy expensive cappuccino/coffee/espresso machine. The thing is about ten years old, but still chugs away like a champ. “What’s your poison?”

“Pardon?”

“What do you take in your coffee?”

“Just black, thank you.”

I shiver at that, my jaw tingling with the memory of trying it once. It takes a special breed to drink black coffee, I’m convinced. “So, how is your day going?”

“Very well, thanks for asking. I’m glad to know yours is better today.”

“It is.” After setting the coffees on the table, I sit down across from him, and push a box of lemon cookies left out from breakfast earlier, toward him. “These are great with coffee. Try one.”

He reaches toward the box, and in doing so, knocks his mug to the side. Steaming coffee splashes over the edge of the table, and when Simon startles out of his chair, a dark circle marks the spot on his thigh that captured the hot fluids.

“Oh shit!” I scramble forward, setting the cup upright and spin around for a towel. “Are you okay?” With the rag dangling from my fingertips, I hesitate to dry the spot too close to his crotch.

As if taking the cue, he nabs the towel and sets it there himself. “Yes, I um … can I use your bathroom?”

“Sure. It’s just … down the hall. There are more rags under the sink if you need them,” I say, tearing off some paper towel to sop the spilled coffee. Once it’s cleaned, I toss the saturated scraps into the trash and plop back into my chair.

A minute later, Oliver enters the kitchen, removing his earbud, which blasts his music loud enough for me to hear, as he passes on his way to the fridge. He grabs a carton of orange juice from inside, while, eyes on me, he kicks it back without a glass, and I set my coffee on the table, frowning.

“Hey, manners. Get a glass.” I know he’s testing me. The therapist told me he probably would, and not to relent, or let him control the situation, as she put it.

Rolling his eyes, he sets the carton of juice back in the fridge and grabs a soda, instead.

“Half. And pour it into a glass. You don’t need to consume an entire can of soda in one sitting.”

As he nabs a glass from the cupboard, I catch his gaze skim toward the second coffee cup still set out on the table.

“A friend of mine stopped by. Someone from work. Would you like to meet him?”

Lip curled as he’s though disgusted with the thought, he finishes pouring his Coke and leaves the can on the counter, before he exits the kitchen, stuffing his earbud back in.

I like to think I have infinite patience, but I also thought I’d have a few years before the bratitude reared its ugly face. Part of me tries to cut him some slack, but the momma in me, the one who used to be good at being a momma, anyway, says what he’s been through doesn’t give him the right to behave with such disrespect.

The second Oliver leaves, Simon returns wearing a large wet circle on his thigh, his face still red, as if he’s embarrassed over spilled coffee.

“I should probably go.”

“Simon, I’ve had to clean up far worse than a little coffee. That’s pretty much the norm at a diner.”

“I suppose I’m somewhat particular about my clothes.”

“I’d stay away from parenthood, then. Especially boys. I swear, Oliver must’ve stained every outfit I put on him. Food, dirt, snot trails he’d wipe on his sleeve. Now that was gross having to clean.”

Lips forming a hard line, he nods. “Well, I’ll take that into consideration if I ever decide to settle down. Thanks for the coffee, Nola. I’m going to let you get on with your day.”

The heavy thunder of music pounds overhead, and both of us look up toward the ceiling. Lips tightened, I offer a sheepish smile, as My Chemical Romance blares from Oliver’s room. I only know the name of the band because I Googled the lyrics last week.

“I’m sorry. My son … he’s taken a liking to goth music, as of late.”

“How old is he?”

“Just turned eleven a few months back.”

“Wow, that’s pretty dark for an eleven-year-old.”