The Comfort of Ordinary (MXM)

The world is your oyster. That’s what they say. Shakespeare dressed it finer: “Why then the world’s mine oyster, which I with sword will open.” But the truth is simpler than pearls and swords. An oyster is still an oyster, salty and ordinary, best eaten with a squeeze of lemon. My oysters have always been that kind—no hidden jewels, just a briny taste that lingers. Pearls are rare anyway, and not always worth more than the shell that carried them. Perhaps the point is that life’s possibilities remain vast, with or without the glitter.

At twenty-eight, my oyster was a teaching assistant job. Not a pearl, but sustenance.

“Good morning, Oliver.”

Professor Noella Portman entered briskly, her presence filling the small office. She set down her bag and loosened her scarf with a practiced flick before sighing. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I had a very hard time getting in the elevator. Everyone uses it nowadays.”

I shook my head lightly. “It’s completely fine, I hadn’t been waiting long.”

Her mouth curved, pleased with my patience, before she perched on the edge of her desk. “The recommendation letter I received from Professor Watkins was phenomenal. I’m excited to work with you. I should warn you, though—my teaching routine is different. I know literature isn’t the most fashionable discipline these days. Everyone wants technology, coding, something sharp-edged and practical. But when I teach, I want to make them feel the marrow of the words, to remind them it matters. It has to be worth their while.”

I felt a small thrum in my chest, the old familiar pull. “I agree, professor. As I wrote in my thesis, I believe literature doesn’t die. Even when the world forgets, the words remain. Every book—no matter how old—carries a fragment of someone’s voice, something that resonates if you listen closely enough.”

Her eyes gleamed, and she leaned in slightly as if I’d struck the very chord she hoped I would. “Yes. Eloquence is dying, Oliver. But if we can teach them to hear it—even once—then maybe it can live again.”

Her words lingered between us, and for a moment I wondered if she meant them as a vow or a warning. The way her eyes glowed behind her glasses suggested both. She tapped the desk twice with her fingertips before drawing out a thin folder and sliding it toward me.

“I specialize in Victorian literature,” she said, the words touched with pride, as though she were naming a grandchild. “The nineteenth century, its novels and essays, the flood of serialized works. Dickens, the Brontës, George Eliot, Wilde. Writers who believed in art as a mirror to society’s contradictions.” She lifted her gaze to me, sharp but kind. “We live in contradictions now, too, don’t we?”

I nodded, though my throat had tightened. Victorian literature had been a soft spot of mine since university, the cadence of those pages like old oak wood—solid, dependable, resonant when struck.

“My courses,” she continued, “are not lectures alone. I push them to perform, to debate. To see past the dust of the language and discover the pulse beneath it. You’ll be helping me prepare those materials. Drafting questions, gathering sources, even staging demonstrations when I need them. I don’t believe in easy slides and bullet points. I believe in engagement.”

Her hand brushed the folder again. “In here you’ll find my syllabus for the term. Week by week. Dickens opens us, as he should. Then Eliot, Gaskell, Hardy. Poetry, too—Tennyson and Browning, though many students sigh at verse as if it were punishment. I expect you to read ahead of them, always. A TA should not be surprised in class.”

I flipped the folder open as she spoke. Pages of neat outlines, margin notes scrawled in green ink, even lists of suggested secondary readings. The structure was meticulous, but alive.

“You’ll also manage the discussion sections,” she added, more briskly now, as if shifting from passion to practicalities. “Forty students divided into two groups. Keep the conversations alive, steer them when they drift. Don’t be afraid of silence. Sometimes silence is where a thought begins.”

I nodded again, though my stomach fluttered. Forty students. My voice in front of them, expected to coax words from their unwilling mouths.

“And,” she said, pausing with a small, wry smile, “coffee. I drink it strong, no sugar. You’ll learn quickly that literature is best taught caffeinated. I won’t send you running errands endlessly, don’t worry, but now and then…” She tilted her head. “Even a professor has her small needs.”

Her honesty disarmed me. There was no pretension in the request—just the recognition that the ordinary rituals of caffeine and conversation might keep both of us alive through the term.

I looked at her then, truly looked. Her scarf still pooled around her neck, her hair pinned too hurriedly, one strand falling loose at her temple. She was older, with faint lines of weariness drawn delicately beneath her eyes, but her voice carried the zeal of someone still fighting a battle she refused to let die.

Victorian literature, coffee, debates, silence. These would be my oysters now.

When our meeting ended, I shook her hand, thanked her with what I hoped was steadiness in my voice, and gathered the folder to my chest as though it were fragile. Professor Portman dismissed me kindly, already bending toward another stack of papers, her scarf slipping further down her shoulder as she muttered something about Browning’s syntax being misunderstood.

The hallway outside was bright with those unforgiving fluorescent lights that made every detail look flatter than it should. Students drifted past me, their laughter carried along the corridor like restless birds. I stepped aside to let them pass, clutching the folder tighter, and felt a peculiar pressure in my chest—half dread, half an eager, nervous hum.

Forty students. My voice among them. Guiding them into novels that had been my own companions in quieter years. Would they listen? Or would their eyes glaze over, sliding toward the glow of their phones? Professor Portman had made it sound like a duel: between eloquence and apathy, between words that endured and the age of algorithms. And I, of all people, had just been enlisted.

I walked out of the building into the river air of Riverfort, cool and damp against my skin. The city always smelled faintly of steel and brine—the old factories and the water folding together into something both harsh and oddly comforting. I loosened my grip on the folder and let the thought sink in: Victorian literature, coffee, debates, silence.

Not glamorous, not a pearl. Yet there was a strange gleam in it. To read ahead, to summon words from a roomful of strangers, to stand beside a professor who still believed the written word could outlive neon and glass—perhaps that was enough. Perhaps my ordinary oyster carried its own kind of shine, even if no one else could see it.

I pulled my coat closer and started down the street, already imagining the weight of those novels in my hands, their voices at my back. My dread walked beside me, of course—it always did—but for the first time in a long while, it was joined by something gentler. Something like possibility.

The walk back carried me away from the college buildings, past the restless traffic and into the quieter arteries of Riverfort. By the time I reached the neighborhood, the air had cooled further, biting faintly at my ears.

Freddie’s house stood at the end of the lane, a squat, brick-stubborn thing with shutters that hadn’t been painted in years and a roof that leaned just enough to look tired, though not tired enough to give up. A curtain twitched as I approached—he always seemed to know when someone was at his door.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of fried onions and old wood, with a trace of aftershave that clung stubbornly to the hallway despite its owner’s insistence that he “wasn’t one for fancy smells.”

Freddie himself sat in his armchair, television volume turned up two notches too high, the glow cutting across his lined face. Seventy-two, though he carried it like a man determined not to concede. His shoulders were still broad, his movements brisk, his voice loud enough to fill the room without asking permission. The years had thickened him around the middle, but there was nothing fragile about him, nothing soft either.

This was November eleventh—my second day under his roof. And I still had no idea what I was supposed to do here.

“Close the door, boy, you’re letting the cold in,” he barked without looking away from the screen.

I shut it quickly, standing awkwardly in the entryway with the folder still in my hands.

It hadn’t been my idea exactly. When I’d moved to Riverfort, finding a place to live had been another oyster I couldn’t quite pry open. Rents were merciless, and my savings already stretched thin. Riverfort had this program—an arrangement where elderly residents who didn’t want the fate of retirement homes could host someone younger, a tenant and companion in one. You got a roof, they got a presence. Professor Watkins, ever concerned about my transition into the city, recommended I apply. “You need somewhere steady, Oliver,” he’d said. “And Freddie Martecci needs someone to grumble at besides the evening news.”

So I’d filled out the paperwork, sat through the awkward interview, and within a week was assigned here. To Freddie.

Yesterday had been my first day, a blur of unpacking and trying not to touch too much. Today marked the second. And still, I didn’t know what the hell I was supposed to do here. Company, they said. Be company. But what did that mean? Sit in the same room? Share a meal? Pretend his complaints about the government were interesting?

I glanced at him now, slouched in his chair, muttering curses at the volume of the news anchor’s voice while turning his own television louder. Company, I thought, must sometimes mean nothing more than not being alone in the house.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” Freddie’s voice cut across the room without him turning his head. His eyes stayed glued to the television, some news anchor’s face throwing pale light across his broad features.

I stepped further in, setting my bag down at the dining table. “No, sir. Just—settling in.”

“Don’t call me sir,” he said, shifting in his chair. “Makes me feel like a soldier. Name’s Freddie. You got it?”

“Yes, Freddie.” The word felt strange on my tongue, too casual for a man who already carried himself like a fixture of the house.

He nodded once, satisfied, then stabbed the armrest with his finger. “Kitchen’s yours if you need it. Don’t drink my beer. I don’t share that. Milk’s fine, bread’s fine. But if you finish the coffee, you better replace it.”

“I will,” I murmured.

Finally, he turned his head toward me, eyes narrowing as though he could measure me in one look. “So, what do you do all day? Read books?”

I almost smiled at how bluntly the question landed. “I’m a teaching assistant. Literature.”

He gave a bark of a laugh, short and dry. “Hah. Literature. Figures. I get paired with the book boy.” His eyes lingered on me another moment, then he turned back to the screen. “Fine. Could be worse. At least you’re not a musician. Those are all hours of noise.”

I stood there, unsure if that was permission to leave him be or an invitation to sit. The program had told me companionship was the goal, but Freddie didn’t look like a man who wanted anyone’s company. Still, there was something in the way he kept speaking—curt, dismissive, yet not shutting me out completely—that made me think he was testing the air.

I pulled out a chair at the dining table and opened my folder, the faint crackle of paper filling the silence between us. His television grumbled on, and beneath it all, so did he, muttering under his breath about politicians and the price of gas.

And there we were. Day two. Two men in a house, one watching the news, one pretending to study. Company.

The television droned on for a while, some political debate devolving into raised voices. Then, without warning, Freddie spoke again, his tone sharp as a nail hammered into wood.

“I’ve got more rules,” he said, eyes still fixed on the screen. “No girls in here. Don’t even think about it. Riverfort’s got hotels, even if it doesn’t look like it. Feel free to rent a room there, but never in my house.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the abruptness. “No worries at all,” I said quickly.

And that was true. But as the words left me, I felt the weight of what I hadn’t said. I didn’t know why I hadn’t told him—that I was gay, that his rule didn’t apply to me the way he thought. It felt like coming out all over again, that old clumsy dance of deciding when and where and with whom to drop the fact like a coin into a slot, waiting to see how the machine would rattle.

With my parents, it hadn’t been a disaster, though at the time it felt unbearable. My mother cried for four days straight, the kind of tears that came not from anger but from the stubborn refusal to adjust her vision of me. Then one morning she stopped, as if she’d wrung herself dry, and decided to get over it. My father, meanwhile, simply blinked when I told him, as though I’d spoken in another language. He never acknowledged it, never debated it—just filed it away under the drawer marked things I don’t deal with. And he’s been handling it the same way since.

Not so bad, all things considered.

Alec, though—my younger brother—he had been the easiest of them all. No tears, no blinking confusion. Just a grin, a shrug, and a firm clap on my back. “Cool, man,” he’d said. “So? You’re still you.” He’d been solid ever since, like a pillar I hadn’t known I needed.

I shifted in my chair, looking down at the syllabus notes spread before me, the inked outlines of Dickens and Eliot. Freddie’s television chattered on, his face carved in stubborn attention. Maybe it wasn’t the right time. Maybe it didn’t matter. For now, silence would be my answer.

I spread the papers wider across the dining table, arranging them into small, neat piles. Week one: Dickens. Week two: Eliot. Week three: Gaskell. I labeled each stack with sticky notes I’d brought from my bag, the corners aligned just so, the order precise. It was the kind of task that soothed me—bringing order to someone else’s design, folding the chaos of paragraphs into columns I could control.

My pen tapped gently against the margin of Professor Portman’s outline as I scribbled ideas for discussion prompts. What does it mean to live with dignity in poverty? How do characters build belonging when society offers none? The words felt like little doors I could open for students, even if they didn’t want to walk through them.

Behind me, Freddie muttered at the television, the familiar rise and fall of his curses becoming part of the room’s rhythm. He didn’t ask what I was doing, and I didn’t explain. The silence between us was filled enough by the scratch of my pen and the drone of the news.

As I worked, though, another thought tugged quietly at me. I wasn’t only organizing for her classes. I was organizing for myself. Every question I wrote, every annotation, carried a faint shadow of something larger I’d never said aloud in this house.

I wanted to be a writer.

Not just a reader, not just a teacher. A writer. The thought always arrived like a shy visitor, hovering at the edge of my mind, uncertain if it was welcome. My thesis had been admired enough, my professors kind enough, but ambition had a way of turning into a whisper instead of a roar. What could I possibly write that hadn’t already been said? What story could I tell that mattered?

Still, as I tucked the notes into their folders, lining them like soldiers ready for the coming weeks, I felt it flicker inside me again—the hope that somewhere between Dickens and Eliot, between coffee runs and leading discussions, I might learn how to put my own words down. To find a voice that wasn’t borrowed, that wasn’t only a reflection of someone else’s prose.

I glanced at Freddie, his face lit blue by the television, his scowl deep but oddly steady. Even here, in a stranger’s house that smelled of onions and old wood, the thought remained.

Maybe, I told myself, this is where it begins.

Freddie flicked the television off without warning, the room plunging into the softer hum of the radiator and the faint creak of his chair as he rose. He muttered something under his breath, not meant for me, and shuffled down the hall, door closing behind him with a tired click. The silence that followed felt heavier than the news had.

I looked at the clock on the wall, its hands pointing firmly to half past eleven. My eyes stung faintly from the lamplight and the stacks of notes I had been sorting. Tomorrow would be another day of preparation—Professor Portman’s syllabus still thick with assignments I hadn’t organized, discussions I hadn’t planned. Two weeks remained until the semester began, and already I felt it chasing me.

So I gathered my things, pushed the chair back quietly, and made my way upstairs to my room.

It was small but just enough for me: the narrow bed pressed against the wall, layered with gray sheets and pillows that still smelled faintly of detergent not my own. A wooden floor polished by years of footsteps gleamed under the light, and beside the bed a nightstand held a lamp with a soft, warm glow. My desk sat beneath the wide-paned window, its surface scattered with notebooks, folders, and my laptop angled toward the chair. A basket of cushions leaned against the radiator, as if someone before me had made a habit of reading by the heat. The walls bore a couple of old framed posters, their colors dulled but familiar enough to soften the edges of the space.

I sat on the bed, pulled the small pill from the bottle, and swallowed it dry. Sleep had always been elusive for me, a restless thing. Without the pill, I’d lie awake while my mind looped in useless circles. With it, I at least had a chance. I stretched out on the mattress, blanket tugged over my chest, and let the glow of my phone screen wash over me. I scrolled mindlessly, chasing distraction through endless feeds and faces, until my vision blurred and the phone slipped against my chest. Sleep came quietly, not gentle, but inevitable.

Morning arrived in a haze of gray light leaking through the blinds. I rubbed my eyes, sat up slowly, and reached for the clothes I had set out the night before. A white shirt first, soft against my skin, layered under a dark gray pullover with a half-zip that rested neatly at my collarbone. I slid into black trousers with side pockets that creased sharply down the leg, sturdy but comfortable. A backpack over one shoulder finished the look. When I caught my reflection in the dark screen of my laptop, I looked like a student again—though older, heavier with expectation.

Breakfast was quick, just coffee and bread, before I stepped outside into Riverfort’s pale autumn air.

This city was not built for cars the way Calico had been. Roads existed, yes, but they felt secondary, edged with bike lanes that were alive with people pedaling briskly past, bells chiming, wheels glinting in the early light. I walked for now, hands in my pockets, trying to map the town in my head. If I was going to live here, I needed to know where things were—where to eat, where to write, where to breathe.

The first order of business was food. Mexican food, if I could find it. It was the only cuisine that had ever felt like a guarantee to me, a comfort of spice and warmth, tortillas soft against the fingers. I wasn’t much of a cook, and I never pretended otherwise. What I wanted was a place I could return to, a table that knew me even if I came alone.

Coffee was the second necessity. I could make it at home, but coffee shops had a pulse that kitchens didn’t. They carried the hum of conversation, the smell of roasted beans, the clatter of cups. A library, too, was on my list—shelves of order, the hush of pages, and maybe even a quiet desk where I could pretend my aspirations weren’t just folded scraps of thought.

So I wandered. The streets revealed themselves slowly: clothing shops with wide windows displaying mannequins in autumn layers, bakeries sweetening the air with sugar, and narrow alleys that smelled faintly of damp stone. Eventually I found it—a café pressed between two clothing stores, its glass front fogged from the warmth inside. A handwritten sign leaned against the window, promising cappuccinos and fresh scones.

I paused on the curb, adjusting my backpack, then pushed the door open. A small bell chimed above me. The air inside was thick with roasted coffee and the faint sweetness of cinnamon.

“Well,” I murmured under my breath, stepping further in, “I’ll just try my way through every café in Riverfort until I find the right one.”

And so I began with this one.

The bell above the café door had barely stilled when a young woman emerged from behind the counter. She looked younger than most baristas I’d seen in the city, though not in a way that made her seem unready. Her style carried a little hipster edge—rolled sleeves, patterned socks just visible above worn sneakers, a vintage enamel pin fastened crookedly to her apron. She didn’t quite fit Riverfort’s sensible, muted air, but perhaps that was why I liked her immediately. A ripple of color against the gray, a reminder that even here people carved out their own peculiar shapes.

“Good morning, sir,” she said, smiling as though she meant it.

“Good morning,” I replied, and then my eyes fell to the tag pinned to her shirt. Natalie. The name deserved to be said. “Good morning, Natalie.”

Her smile widened at the sound of it. And in that instant, I remembered every lesson learned in high school jobs, stocking shelves, wiping tables, speaking to customers who often looked right through me. Names mattered. They stitched people back into themselves. A cashier, a server, a clerk—behind every uniform was a person who endured long shifts with strangers, their patience thinned by repetition. Mentioning their name was my way of handing them back their humanity, even if just for a breath. A rule I had carried with me into adulthood: always speak the name.

“What can I get you?” she asked, straightening behind the register.

“Well, Natalie,” I said, steadying my voice into polite clarity, “I’m looking for something bitter, but with a touch of sweetness. Very little milk, no flavors. And if it can be skimmed milk, that would be perfect.”

Her brow arched slightly, considering. “Okay. Hot or cold?”

“Hot, please.”

“Maybe a classic cortado would suit you. We also have a specialty for autumn, a version with a bit of cinnamon. Would you like to try that?”

I shook my head, almost gently. “No, thank you. No flavors.”

“All right then, a classic cortado it is. Medium or large?”

“Medium, please.”

She tapped at the screen, then looked up again, voice light and practiced. “Would you like to pair it with something? We baked fresh cookies this morning.”

It was the way she said it—we baked fresh cookies this morning. There was something in her tone that suggested she had baked them for me alone, as if the morning itself had rolled out of bed and slipped into the oven just for my arrival. And though I wasn’t one for sweets, I felt the tug of her invitation.

“Yes, please,” I said. “Just a classic cookie, then. I’m not much of a sweet person.”

“That sounds fantastic.” She smiled as she printed the receipt. “Your total is six pounds, please.”

I slipped my card across the counter, tipped without hesitation, and watched as she slid the payment through.

“Here or to go?” she asked.

“To go, please, Natalie.”

She turned toward the espresso machine, setting the order in motion with a rhythmic grace that came from practice. Steam hissed, the grinder groaned low, and the smell of roasted beans swelled in the air.

As she moved, I found myself leaning forward slightly. “Natalie, may I ask you a question?”

She glanced over her shoulder, cheerful. “Of course.”

“I’m new to Riverfort. You seem like a local here. I’ve been looking for a library and a good Mexican food spot. Do you happen to know of any?”

At this, her eyes brightened, though she laughed softly. “Well, here in Riverfort we have the oldest library in all of Calderra. It’s just on the next street, easy walking distance. You should definitely see it, it’s beautiful. But Mexican food…” she hesitated, wrinkling her nose slightly, “I’m not much of a fan, so I honestly don’t know. I don’t think we really have that here.”

“Ah, I see. Thank you.” I let the disappointment settle gently in me. “What about bikes? Do you know where I might get one?”

She chuckled, reaching for a ceramic cup. “You’ve already caught the Riverfort vibes, haven’t you?”

“I just think it seems easier to move around with a bike,” I admitted.

“You’re not wrong.” She pulled the shot with a steady hand. “Actually, my uncle owns a bike shop. Wait a second.” She crouched, unzipped the worn backpack tucked behind the counter, and rummaged through its contents until she drew out a small card. She slid it across to me, the corners softened from being carried. “Here. Tell him you know me and he’ll give you a discount.”

I took the card, the paper warm from her fingers. “That’s very kind of you, Natalie. Thank you.”

“Of course,” she said, almost dismissively, though her smile contradicted the gesture.

She placed the cortado on the counter, the rich crema glistening under the foam, and set a small paper bag with a still-warm cookie beside it. “Here you go.”

I gathered the cup and bag, slipping the card into my wallet. The café’s hum filled my ears—the scrape of chairs, the faint murmur of two students in the corner, the hiss of milk frothing for someone else’s order.

As I stepped back, I thought again of how easy it was to make a place feel like it belonged to you, just by speaking a name.

The bell above the café door gave a soft chime behind me as I stepped out into the street. The morning air had the faint bite of November, sharp enough to make the warmth of the cup in my hand feel like a small fire I carried with me. I lifted it, took a slow sip, and the taste struck immediately—dark, bitter in just the right way, with a delicate sweetness that lingered at the edges. The milk was so light it barely announced itself, only softening the edge of the roast without muting its depth.

I stopped on the sidewalk, letting it sit on my tongue a moment longer before swallowing, then laughed quietly under my breath. It shouldn’t have been this easy. One café, first try, and I had stumbled into something near perfect. Still, I wasn’t ready to let Riverfort off so quickly. I decided I would make it a small mission to try each place tucked between its streets, as though I were tasting my way through the town itself. Yet this one set a high bar.

Coffee, cookies, and a discount on a bike, all from a single exchange. That was more than service; that was serendipity. I slipped the paper bag into my backpack, the faint sweetness of the cookie filling the space around me, and considered what came next. Natalie had been right: I had already caught the vibe of Riverfort, the pulse of wheels on cobblestones, the steady hum of bicycles that seemed to weave the town together.

The first step seemed obvious. I had the address in my pocket, her uncle’s card tucked safely in my wallet. The idea of walking into a shop where my name meant nothing but hers might open a door carried a strange comfort. I thought of the bike not just as a mode of movement, but as a way of claiming my place here. A set of wheels that might learn the bends and stones of this town better than I could.

So I turned, adjusted the strap of my bag across my shoulder, and set off toward the direction Natalie had pointed out. The cup was still hot against my fingers, my breath faint in the crisp air. The streets stretched before me, alive with the bells of bicycles and the shuffle of early shoppers. Somewhere ahead, a bike waited, and with it, the beginning of learning Riverfort not as a stranger, but as someone who intended to stay.