Black And Bitter, Thanks
Two coffee mugs sit on the scratched, laminated table that is the centrepiece of my kitchen. One is blue and chipped in half a dozen places. You might say it has character. The other is green and unremarkable.
I pour filtered coffee into each mug. My hands are steady, but the joints in my fingers ache as they often do these days. Milk goes into the green cup, followed by sugar. More than is good for me. I don’t add anything to the blue one. Steam curls above its rim like an accusing finger. Memory is hard and unforgiving, like a metaphysical spoon stirring the bitterness in.
It’s raining outside. The sky is grey and oppressive, matching my mood.
The letter from the Department of Welfare Services is still propped against the windowsill. I should take it down. Or burn it.
I sit this way for a long time. Watching the long black cool. Sipping my own diluted brew. Wishing I had the courage for something stronger. Remembering someone who did.
We met in a bar. One of those forgotten pubs that felt like an RSL except it wasn’t. Dozens of unemployed, many of them not much older than me, congregated within its walls. They’d stare at you, as if you’d interrupted a family gathering, clutching their form guides and their fourth beer of the morning.
It was a Thursday. The monotony of my administration role had driven me out of the office. I wasn’t quite so old then, although if you looked closely in the reflection of my life, you could see time was about to tap me on the shoulder.
Beer in hand, I wandered through the intermittent gloom and tired furniture, restless without knowing why. Sunlight angled through grubby windows, strips of light slatting across the floor. The carpet was sticky, the smell of dead cigarettes overpowering. Hopelessness filled the air, thick as incense. You breathed it in and it knew you, knew that you were divorced and had no family that gave a shit about you, knew that you belonged here. Welcome brother, it seemed to say. Welcome to the rest of your days.
The clack of billiard balls drew me deeper into the pub.
I’ve always loved pool. It’s a skilful game when played on a full-sized table. Clarence was holding court, giving two other guys a lesson and earning some beer money along the way. My first impression of him was a lasting one—he leaned over the table, broad face intent as he focused on a long pot, pale blue eyes narrowed beneath thick white eyebrows.
“Bad luck, mate. Do you wanna play for double or nothin’?”