Foam
Setting: Dawn on a Saturday
Bus Terminal,
Characters: You
Man with a cat on his shoulder
Props: Two cups of instant coffee from the man
When I was eight, I had my first taste of tea. It tasted like soil, flowers, and leaves. It turned my stomach. Disgusted, I poured in half a cup of milk to mellow the garden-tasting brew, then tossed in a cube of sugar.
My grandmother screamed curses at me, flinging the decades-old cup across the room. The bottom was thick with undissolved sugar—and confusion.
"You'll never marry! You do not put the milk in first. Do you want to grow old in this house alone? Rot and fade into dust by yourself?"
I always thought she was kidding. What eight-year-old knew about tea superstitions?
Since then, she had me spend every waking hour holed up under a kitchen stool, reading from her battered copy of 8,414 Strange and Fascinating Superstitions, complete with her colorful commentary on which ones were nonsense and which were gospel truth.
She's the reason I don't walk under ladders. She's also the reason I'm currently up at dawn, in the god-forbid busiest bus station in the city, sipping a cup of stale black coffee, waiting for my ride home. I am not—by any chance—an early morning person, but apparently, according to my grandmother and her slot machine-worshipping friends, goddesses bless those who work hardest at night.
Like me—on my 13th failed job interview for an international customer service agency.
Or like the man seated two empty seats from me, hands fumbling inside a black-and-blue hobo bag that had clearly seen better days. He looked like he had, too.
Still waiting, dear goddesses.
So is my new friend, seated beside me, rummaging for his lost luck inside that tattered bag.
I glanced at him again. He could be as old as my grandmother. I watched his brow twitch, a drop of sweat threatening to trail down his cheek as he kept digging through the bag like it held something sacred.
That's when I noticed: a mole on his left eyebrow. Must suck. Compared to me, the dot on the side of my nose holds more luck.
My heart nearly flew out of my chest as he looked up and locked eyes with me.
He didn't hear me, did he?
His hand jerked, knocking a small mirror to the ground. It hit the floor, cracked, and spun once before settling.
Seven years of bad luck.
In my head, I wished him well for the unfortunate days ahead. But then he grinned.
I followed his line of sight and saw a black cat weaving through the tangle of legs in the terminal. It padded past me, then leapt onto his shoulder. He let out a long sigh of relief and rubbed his hand along the cat's back.
He picked up a paper cup from the seat between us and emptied a sachet of instant coffee into it. He took in the scent like it held the answers to every question he'd ever asked.
And he smiled—watching the bubbles.
The ones that hold the fortune, and the future.
The ones I wish I saw in my own cup, too.#
