A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys. Here's a quick update for ya.
The second time it happens, it's two weeks after his funeral. Although she hasn't been to work since that day and doesn't plan on going back anytime soon, she's started going for a run every morning. It clears her head. The pure rhythm of it, the chill of the early morning air on her face, the sun rising before her; it gives her something to think about other than... it. Him.
She sees their- no, her, brown two-story looming at the end of the street, but, on a whim, turns the corner instead of continuing straight. She's just not quite ready to face her life yet this morning.
Finally, after two extra laps around the neighborhood, she pants as she lets herself in the front door. The silence that greets her is deafening. An echo reverberates off of the wood flooring as she slams the door shut behind her, and tugs her sweatshirt over her head. Her arms drop to her sides. Now what was she supposed to do?
Her eyes dart across her empty kitchen, landing on the coffee pot. Of course. That's what normal people do at 8am; they drink coffee.
She sets to work turning on the machine. It takes her a good two minutes to find the filters before she remembers that they're on the top shelf. The one that's just an inch out of her reach. Eric always had to get the filters down for her.
She falters for just a second; an unexpected wrench thrown into her plan. For a moment, she contemplates running to her bedroom, changing back into her pajamas, and calling her mom. Screw the damn coffee. She didn't even want it. But then she remembers; she's trying to be normal. It's okay to miss him, but she's got to keep moving forward. At least, that's what they'd told her yesterday at grief counseling.
So she blows out a deep breath, and, ignoring the tears prickling behind her eyelids, pushes the stool from the breakfast bar over, reaches up, and gets the filters down herself. She knows it's crazy, but she swears she can almost hear him say, Good girl. See? You never really needed me around, anyway.
She sniffles, but she makes the coffee. It smells good. Maybe a little bit of caffeine is exactly what she needs. She picks up the pot and is just about to pour herself a mug when she stops dead in her tracks.
She'd set out two coffee cups on the counter, simply out of habit.
Covering her mouth with her hand, she shoves the coffee pot back onto its stand. Some of it sloshes out onto her hand, and she cries out in pain. A bolt of sheer anger courses through her, and she swipes at the mugs blindly, sending them crashing to the floor.
The armchair is in her path, and she grabs the phone before collapsing into it. Tears streaming down her face, she curls into the cushion and numbly sucks on her wounded hand while her other is occupied with dialing the number she's still got memorized, thankful no one had the heart to change it yet:
Thank you for calling Bank of America, you've reached Eric Forman, Human Resources, extension 238. I'm currently out of my office, but if you leave your name, number, and a short message, I'll give you a call when I return.
