Coffee at 3pm

The indicator’s rusted hand moved clockwise methodically; chiming melodically once it reached my floor. Through the elevator doors, I saw her. Pretty as the first day of autumn. Where the senescence leaves of the old oak tree turn brown, like the colour of her hair— which I used to run my fingers through, how she hated it so much— and fall to the ground. I had forgotten she lived only two stories above. We stood there paralysed fixated on examining the face of this once so-familiar stranger. The gates began to close. Without hesitation, her hand shot towards the hold-open button, and I got in.

She didn’t avert her gaze from the elevator doors to acknowledge my presence beside her. Steadfastly staring at what appeared to be a stain on the lift’s left door with an apathetic devotion that was verging on profound. The blemish in question had been festering there for weeks: beginning to turn the most peculiar shade of purple. No longer bearing any resemblance to whatever substance it previously had been. Perhaps coming to terms with the mysterious origins of this splattering would reveal some form of hidden meaning to the universe and our place in it. Or maybe the only option less appealing to gazing at this grime-stained lift was seeing my face again.

An awkward yet not wholly unwelcome silence settled in, putting its feet up, and making jovial conversation with the creaks and clangs of the elevator shaft. Over the years they had become very well acquainted. They were probably gossiping about some event from the party on the 13th floor last night. The one whose invitation I had politely, and rather forcefully declined. Their chatter was unceremoniously cut short by the brakes squealing our vessel to a halt. A loud clank reverberated through the lift. Followed by the doors struggling open.

“Bye,

it was nice to see you again.”

Yeah, likewise.

Her figure had already disappeared into the winding maze of construction sites.

Our apartment block was anything but glamorous, despite what the monthly rent might deceive you into believing. It had been anticipated to lead the vanguard of new builds, which would herald in a much-needed wave of gentrification to revitalise the ailing high street. The wave had petered out before it hit the shore, as each subsequent development was delayed into infinitum. Scant evidence remains of this vision, save for a couple of hipster cafes on the high street and our aforementioned housing unit, whose moss-clad walls lend a fallen-civilisationesque affectation to the surrounding half-constructed lots. Of course, this didn't dissuade the droves of debt-burdened college grads, who deluded themselves into believing that they were still rebel outcasts, despite their career in finance, as they eked out the remainder of their youth in a semi-conscious haze punctuated by long periods of alcohol-induced stupor. However, just this morning, as the early morning sun hit its exposed brickwork at the right angle- it almost didn’t look half bad. I checked my watch: good, just enough time for a coffee before my data analyst internship.

My regular café was five minutes from my flat. Bamboo trees peered out the large street-facing windows, onto the patio where -whenever the weather willed it- couples would sit discussing all the mundanities of life in intricate detail over a £4 double espresso shot. It had, however, been overcast all morning and the landing was appropriately abandoned, except for a tribe of magpies scouring the tables for breadcrumbs. The usual barista had seemingly been replaced by a gaunt, lanky fellow with a scratched-out name tag and company-mandated face mask. His flesh clung tight to his skeletal frame, hugging every contour of his face, with desperation akin to an insecure girlfriend at prom. Despite his alien appearance, he seemed oddly familiar.

Hi,

can I get a double shot of Expresso?

Pressing numbers into the cash machine, he presented me with the card reader. Then turning 90 degrees with mechanical precision, he filled a cup with fresh water.

Is the regular guy on break?

Unperturbed, he ground a batch of beans into a fine powder. I resigned myself to patiently waiting at the counter. The water screamed, wailing in pain as translucent vapour ascended out of a vent in the machine. A creamy caramel lather dripped out of the portafilter into a small ceramic mug. It began to sputter, and he removed the mug as whatever remained fell into the drip tray. He handed me the cup, those sunken eyes boring into mine with a feverish intensity. If the subject of his fixation hadn't been a befuddled 23-year-old, who just wanted to drink his coffee in peace, one could almost believe he was experiencing a spiritual reckoning. I decided it would probably be best to sit outside and drink.

The coffee had a very distinctive taste, peppery but sweet, almost like almonds. A man grabbed a chair off the adjacent table and swivelled it around to face mine. I probably wouldn’t have recognised him, had he not been shrouded in the same battered trench coat as when we travelled across Europe together, smuggling half our body weight in cocaine. By the end of our journeys, we weren't in a state too dissimilar to his current one. Having lost most of the coke, either up our noses or stuck between the crevices of half a dozen rusted train carts. Part of him probably died out there- hell, part of me did too.

“How’s the Mrs?”

I grimaced slightly but it was enough for him to take notice.

I wouldn’t know.

“Good riddance, you’re better off without her.”

She brought so much joy to my life, you wouldn’t understand. She made Winter turn into Spring and Spring into Summer.

“Then back to winter again, lest we forget. These are but the motions of the calendar, my friend, an action for which she deserves little credit. She merely dulled your senses, contenting you with an empty life.”

She didn’t dull my senses but accentuated them. She lent a light to my days. Surely you can not be against happiness.

“I despise its very notion; it leads to nothing but stagnation and complacency. No great man has ever been happy and never will be. They are fundamentally opposed. Suffering is the essential ingredient to a full life. What are the peaks of ecstasy, if one doesn’t clamber tooth and nail up a valley of despair to reach it?”

What's the point in being great if my life is to be filled with discomfort and misery? So, some dunce, two decades from now can rediscover my dust-covered remains in the appendix of a history book? I would much rather settle into a simple life in pleasant obscurity.

“You misunderstand my idea of greatness. For it can’t be ascribed onto you but must be earned from within by living life at the edge of your abilities, untethered. Your desire for comfort, is but the achings and pains of a body which longs for the release of death; so, it can finally be liberated into the comforting warm embrace of nonexistence. You may as well have been comatose for the past 5 years.”

I can tell that you've endured a great deal of difficulty in your times, my friend, and for any role I may have played in these unfortunate circumstances, I offer my sincerest apologies. I can see how living through such pain and grief can lead one to believe there is some valour to it. But I promise you that glorifying suffering will only result in living as a masochistic ascetic—bereft of life's pleasures. True virtue lies within fostering joy.

“Spare me your sympathies.” he spat, “I believe, I was once acquainted with an opiate fiend in Marrakesh, who had reached a similar conclusion, except concerning his addiction of choice. Any vice can be romanticised given flowery enough prose. If your only goal is gratification, why not follow his example, save yourself the hassle and inject it into your veins.”

The fact that you could acquaint the two just shows that you know nothing of love.

“I’ve been well acquainted with quite a few mistresses in my time.”

There’s more to love than mere acquaintance

“If you are such a self-proclaimed expert on the subject, why did yours end?”

I don't know.

I wondered if he could tell I was lying. He probably didn't care as he seemed preoccupied with seizing the conversational lull to light a cigarette. Inhaling in 60-second intervals. A magpie nestled itself against his trousers. He shooed it away with an instinctual kick. The poor bird was seemingly oblivious to the mortal peril it faced- nay, not oblivious it knew; it must’ve known, it saw that boot coming and refused to yield. One can only wonder what it thought in those brief last few instances, before it hit the tarmac, as its pre-mangled body flew through the air one final time. Was it scary? Can a magpie feel fear? It lay in the centre of the road twitching and was subsequently flattened by a semi-truck.

“I haven’t gone through all the trouble of finding you, just to exchange pleasantries, as enjoyable as this conversation has been. I must ask a favour of you.” Scanning the high street for any suspicious onlookers. “For old time's sake”

Go on.

He lay a rectangular package down on the table. It appeared to be wrapped in cling film, two liquid tubes lay on either side, connected to a digital clock by several crisscrossing multi-coloured wires. I stared at it in ardent disbelief.

Is that a fucking bomb!

“Shhhhhh! Let the entire neighbourhood know for Christ's sake. Even if this was a bomb, which I assure you it most definitely isn’t, it would be very unwise to cause a scene.”

Ok, taking a second to compose myself. So, if it’s not a bomb. What exactly is it?

“A highly potent nerve agent”.

Of course, it is and that’s so much better, because why wouldn’t you be carrying around a weapon that’s considered a war crime to use?

“Look, I just need you to place it on the 13th floor of your apartment.”

And what makes you think I’d do that?

“Because you hate your life and this monotonous sham of an existence you’ve gotten yourself caught up in. You’ve been waiting for someone to take some agency out of your life and tell you what to do. Here I am, your proverbial knight in shining armour, ready to save you from your ivory tower. And also...” He reached into his jacket pocket; a glint of metal caught the light, as he unholstered a gun.

So, blackmail is it now? Go on. Shoot me. I don’t think you have it in you. See you talk this big game but-

“Fine by me”

He turned the gun, pressed it to his temple and squeezed the trigger.

For the next several minutes all I could hear was ringing.

The buzzer had been ringing all morning, or at least it had felt as though that was the case. Since I woke up, perhaps a bit before then but any further before that was a complete mystery. Still, I lay in bed, mentally prepping myself for the ordeal of getting up. Answering the door could be counted as a task, get that done; today could be considered productive, and I could go back to sleep guilt-free. This was sound enough logic to finally motivate me to get up. Now that I had successfully tricked myself into leaving my bed, I needed to ensure I stayed up and didn’t just relapse back into slumber at the next possible opportunity: as had happened countless times. I set the kettle to boil, its tortured whistling served as a suitable soundtrack as I navigated a path across my studio apartment; nimbly dodging a week-old takeaway box and summiting over the peak of my clothes pile. Through the blurred intercom screen, there appeared to be a gaunt, lanky fellow at the door.

Pressing the call button. Hey, who is it? Static crackled through the speaker, punctuated by ragged gasps for breath. He must be so wasted from last night’s party that he’d lost his keys and was now bumbling around the doorway, like a complete knobhead, ringing any door that would answer. This tended to happen when the 13th floor decided to host something. If this was to become a regular occurrence, they’d better start paying me, or at least bribing me with beer. I let the poor bastard in.

The kettle had finished boiling. I emptied a quarter jar of instant coffee into a mug, then water until the majority of the granules had dissolved leaving a cream-like substance on the surface, then caffeine pills. This was a new recipe I had formulated. Surprisingly, it didn’t taste the least bit bitter, in fact, it didn’t taste of anything at all.

There was something off about my room. As if the miasma in the air had shifted and the meticulously maintained balance by my specifically placed clutter had been disturbed. How hadn’t I noticed it sooner? Right by my bedside lay a clingfilm-wrapped box with a digital clock on its top. It appeared to be counting down. I picked it up to see if that would spur a reaction. In that same instant, the front door exploded inwards, and there stood my old friend, half-naked, brandishing a firearm. He waved it in the air offering half-mumbled grunts as an explanation for the events unfolding. If I had waited, he may have recomposed himself and maybe settled down to reminisce on the past several years over a cup of coffee, but I didn’t wait, I threw the box at him. Striking him across the face with a wet thud, indicating that something in him and the box had broken. I vaulted over my bed and ran past him- his hand clutching his face, wielding it as droplets of crimson congealed in the gaps between his fingers. I burst into the connecting hallway.

“Over here!” an American-sounding voice shouted from the elevator. His southern affectation made him seem instantly friendly, so I got in. “Howdy, partner.” He tipped his Stetson. The stress caused by the morning's events must have made me delirious, manifesting itself in the form of visual hallucinations. For there, stood in front of me, was the spitting image of the man I had just been fleeing from. This particular rendition was wearing a light-brown flared leather jacket and blue jeans. “Don’t you go worryin' bout him now, you’re all safe in here. It appears that our friend over there, had a bit too much to drink last night.”

Sorry, I’m just a bit confused. What exactly is going on?

“I don’t have a darn clue up a rat's ass, what we’re doing here. But I’m sure the others can explain.” He selected floor 13 on the keypad “We have some real boffins up where we’re going.”

I was more than familiar with the peculiar quirks and idiosyncrasies of the residents, who lived on that floor. Not merely, from having to drown out the noise generated by their biweekly house parties, with a thick cocktail of heavy metal and vodka. The man from flat 135, was the only person in my life, as it currently stood, who could generously be labelled as a friend, as he sold me weed and dubiously acquired painkillers. Or the woman from flat 136, who planted flowers in the corners of every corridor, in a valiant crusade against negative chakras, which she assured us, permeated our block. Or the man from flat 137, who wouldn’t stop inviting me to their semi-frequent house-wide bashes.

The doors parted and before me stretched a sea of replicas of him. Each was adorned in a distinctive outfit, but they had identical features. Row after row: one a detective, one a samurai, one a soldier, one a…. None of them took notice of us intruding upon their gathering; they seemingly had more prescient concerns. The detective opened a window, on the far side of the corridor and leaping from it with the grace of a ballerina, followed by his clone behind him. They formed an orderly cue taking their turns to jump from the window. Not one displaying the least hint of fear or regret. They dispensed the task as if it were as simple as slicing bread in the morning. This was their lot in life.

“Adios, pal.” The cowboy handed me his hat. He joined his brethren with a miraculous display of athleticism performed a summersault then plummeted to his demise. Now, alone in this hallway, I couldn’t think of anything better than to do but follow in their example. I climbed up onto the ledge. Feeling the wind brushing against my face. It’d be smart to gain some distance between me and the building when I jumped, to avoid the wind smearing me against half a dozen of my neighbours' windows like a fly on a windshield, condemned to being a wall décor until some unfortunate window cleaner would have to pry me off.

I jumped.

The pavement yielded beneath me, its surface seemingly made of elastane flinging me back up into the air, with a substantial force soaring high up into the air before gravity was able to wrench me back to the earth, then sent me flying back into the heavens again. At first, the experience had been disorienting, prompting me to regurgitate last night’s Chinese take away but once I had acclimated to this rhythm, I began to enjoy it. Surrendering myself to this ballet between myself and the ground. A symphony of laughter pierced my otherwise melancholy armour.

Alyssa wasn’t shocked when she saw Musafir’s hand protruding from the elevator doorway. It felt reminiscent of a reoccurring dream she had been getting; where she’d meet him in this same elevator and neither of them would utter a word for the entire journey. Discerning whether it had been a dream, or an actual event was getting increasingly difficult. Fact and fiction had this tedious habit of getting intertwined. Next to him was a spilt mug of coffee, its contents forming a shallow pool, in which his face was partially submerged. The liquid trickled down, staining the tacky souvenir t-shirt, she’d once jokingly gifted him. Did he still wear that? It was bittersweet seeing him there, sprawled across the surface of the lift in a position- like how she'd sometimes catch him splayed across their bed in the mornings before she left for work. She knelt to drink the coffee off the linoleum. Then lay down beside him.