Burnt Coal Mash
There is coffee involved. Coffee ensures attention, alertness and coherence. Coffee is a flavored, caffeinated olive branch, though the bitterness of the black liquid worries the giver with its potential symbolism. Still, the woman pushes open the door with a coffee in one hand and the weight of destiny in the other. But there is coffee involved and thus, there is hope.
Except that there isn't. It helps, in the attempt to speak with someone about the current dire state of being, if that someone is present. And the coffee turns cold along with her courage.
And weeks go by with sighs and huffs and the occasional plot that never materializes. And then the perfect opening arrives with everything but a trumpet call, but there's no brewing pot of java anywhere. She knows his ears function based on quantity consumed and no coffee means no aiding the discourse. So she lets the moment pass with little more than a shrug. Destiny is a fine thing but not a particularly useful weapon against a caffeine-deprived boss. He'll see it eventually; likely the day she designs an intravenous Starbucks drip.
Over a hasty breakfast of half-eaten promises to herself to try, she watches each drop of morning Joe that the waitress pours. Refills come with shop talk. Shop talk includes details most people can't stomach with their eggs. The forks stall and her bravery sputters. The server returns yet again, a steaming pot in one hand and flirtatious quips in the other. This aproned stranger, she of the ample nerve and abundant cleavage, must die. Which doesn't mean there isn't a lesson to take from her, one that translates into a grateful tip to a hated human.
There is coffee involved and destiny is not impressed. Her kitchen is messy from a lack of interest, her life is snail-worthy and her coffee tastes like burnt coal mash. And there's a cheerful bird outside that needs plucking. He'll be late this morning, which only delays her exposure to the crankiness of a rebellious man subjected to numbing meetings. Not a day to advance to concept of courtship. Not that they haven't kissed, if one considers accidental collision kissing. There were lips and a few interesting appendages, but then came the apologies, excuses and the redrawing of boundary lines with a thick black Sharpie marker.
Destiny has been fired and its corner office is given to lament. Her badge ought to read: 'Hello, my name is coulda-woulda-shoulda.' When coworkers compare last weekend's dates, she considers how much of yesterday's airborne toxin she'd need to release in order to depopulate the earth. At some point, she stopped living and exists through practiced conversations she never initiates. This morning she told a corpse all about it, but as with most dead things, it had no advice. Whether it's better to live in wonder or rejection she cannot decide and that determination becomes her newest nugget to mull over until it begs to be left alone.
Except today he brings her coffee. The good kind that has a fancy stirrer and seasonally appropriate cup designs. He tells her he'd be willing to join her on whatever planet she's been on lately if she wants the company. There are others in the room but she thinks they won't mind if she just leans across the table and accidentally collides with destiny.
But because there is attentive, alert and coherent coffee involved, he manages to beat her to it. And the Sharpie laments.