There was nothing left in the pot; some pitch black sludge and grounds covered the bottom. It’d sat there for awhile; week, maybe two.
He finally got out of bed. He’d been there for a week, maybe two himself. Just laying there half asleep, kind of in a dream state.
His stomach was growling. He had not eaten in days; maybe some corn chips, a cold can of Wolf Brand Chilli. An empty can sat atop a pile in the kitchen along with used paper towels, some old sandwich bags, cardboard boxes from fast food joints. It was the only trash can in the house. Hadn’t been emptied in months. Bottles used to piss in lined the walls.
He stood at the sink in a robe, bare feet on linoleum, trying to clean the sludge and grounds out of the coffee pot. The water was turned on as hot as it could be, swished ’round in the marked glass. Finally the grounds ‘came loose and he breathed while he emptied them down the drain. The cat meowed.
He made himself a new pot of coffee. There was no cream, no sugar, just black coffee. That’s how she used to drink it. For a brief second or two he thought of walking to the corner store for some goods. How much would cream and sugar cost?, he asked himself; then turned over cushions and trash, under the sofa he looked, and in the cabinets. He came up with $2.56. A tough decision had to be made; cream or two boxes of generic mac and cheese?
He wished she never left.