Stir Crazy

Julianna 2025

Monotony.

*Noun*

A lack of variety or interest.

A state of misery that has been blanketing the last decade of my life.

When I was little, I dreamed of this life. I loved my small town and the familiarity it offers. I loved the small talk in the town grocery store with the same people I've known all of my life. I craved it. I rejected the thought of leaving it, but as the years trickle by, I’m beginning to resent it. Every day is the same, filled with the same faces and the same tasks. At this point, I want something more, even if I'm not entirely sure what that is yet.

The alarm wailing next to my head snaps me out of my mental spiral. I reach for it quickly, trying to stop the noise before it wakes Brandon up. I peer over at him, fast asleep as I snooze my alarm and slowly rise out of bed. I let out a small sigh as I stretch out, a searing pain soaring down my spine.

Fuck, thirty is rough.

Stumbling through the darkness, I carefully navigate myself towards the bathroom. I shut the door softly and flick the light on, squinting my eyes to adjust to the brightness. I hate being awake this early, but after fifteen years with the same schedule, my body doesn't know any better. I stare at myself in the mirror, carefully assessing the evidence of stress on my skin. My dark brown eyes are rimmed with exhaustion, and my hair, poorly maintained, is thrown up in a careless bun. I shouldn't be this tired at this age, but the past few years have been stressful. It’s hard not to dwell on the changes that come with aging. Every new line that appears on my face haunts me, holding my self-esteem hostage. It’s safe to say that maybe I've given up. I don't take the best care of myself anymore. Not like I used to.

I used to be something entirely different.

After a quick splash of water to the face and a dab of concealer, I stumble back into the bedroom to throw on a work shirt and some jeans. Glancing in the mirror, I turn to the side to look over myself. I've always been gangly, but stress has taken a few more pounds off of me. Maybe I should leave the house before I get too deep in my head this morning. I quickly lean over Brandon while he sleeps, gently kissing him on the forehead. A slight whine escapes his body, but my pressure wasn't enough to wake him up completely. I watch him for a few seconds, matching my breathing to his chest's slow rise and fall. I remember when we met, I had never seen anyone more perfect than him. He was everything I ever wanted. Tall and endearing, with a dreamy gleam in his light brown eyes. He's still the same as he was back then, but the passion we once shared has been overtaken by comfort. We've been together for eight years, and while I couldn't have gotten any luckier, we've been in a rut lately. I try not to focus on it too much since both of us work a lot and have little time for anything else these days. Occasionally, I think about what my life would be like if I left him. Would I be happier? Would I regret it? I'm too afraid to find out, so instead, I stay.

The cool breeze sends a chill through my body the second I step outside. September in Massachusetts is unpredictable, but it feels like fall this morning. I rush into the driver's seat of my car, fumbling around in my purse for my keys. I'm early again today, but that's nothing too surprising. I've always been a morning person. Something about the quiet of an early morning comforts me; it’s when I do my best thinking. Or my worst, depending on how you look at it. Most people would say I overthink, and I don't necessarily disagree; there's always some debilitating thought swirling around in my brain. Either way, this is my favorite time of the day. I usually leave a few minutes early to decompress before my shift starts. The familiarity of this town surrounds me with solace. My drive is short, but I add twenty minutes for the sake of my sanity. I love how the cool air pouring through my window feels while I cruise down the dark roads; it’s the only time I ever truly feel at peace. It's rare to see other people on the road at this time, which makes sense for 4 am. Most people don't enjoy this time as much as I do. I stare at the clock, closing in on the start of my shift with each passing second. Don't get me wrong, I love my job, but it became monotonous after a while. I've worked there for fifteen years, finally caving and purchasing the shop after thirteen. To own a business at thirty is an accomplishment, but I wish I had branched out when I still had the chance. It’s a small but successful coffee shop in the town where I grew up. We have our loyal customers, and I couldn't be more thankful for the relationships I've built over the last half of my life. The shop is my second home, my paradise. It’s mine. I couldn't imagine a life without it, but maybe that's my problem.

It's dark and quiet when I pull into the back parking lot. This is how I prefer it. The flickering light from the posts lining the street illuminates my walk to the door. I used to be afraid of opening the shop by myself, but I've gotten used to it. Nothing ever happens in this town, so the fear of what’s lurking in the dark has diminished over the years. The first hour and a half I spend alone at work in the morning is the best time of the workday. It’s a simple process to set up in the morning. Brewing coffees, putting out bagels, and partaking in casual small talk with my morning regulars is second nature to me. It’s a talent, really; it’s what I'm good at. It’s when the day picks up that I become miserable. When my employees show up and do more inconveniencing than work, and the sunshiny demeanor of the Valley’s Karens is bestowed upon us, that's where my day really starts to go downhill. But this first hour is mine and mine alone to bask in. From time to time, I’ll get some extra work done, but for the most part, I write. Writing is the one thing I have for myself, and it's my favorite pastime. I always wanted to be a writer, but the dream shattered as I got older, landing me here. Not that I'm complaining, of course, it could always be worse. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to say I made something of myself. It wasn't in the cards for me, this life. I grew up in a below-average household with a detached mother who couldn't be bothered and a father who was never there. At least I had my stepfather. He's never been the poster child for health, but he's always been there to guide me. Statistically, I should be worse off, but I made it my mission to never be like them, and I've done a solid job at keeping it together. I'm proud of myself for that, at the very least. I've never been one to get in trouble, and while I can be a little wild sometimes, it’s always without consequence. I guess that's a perk of knowing every police officer within a ten-mile radius.

• • •

Cream and sugar?

I think I've asked that question one hundred times already today. Not that I have to. Most of the people who come in every day have been coming for years, and I know their orders like the back of my hand. Occasionally, we’ll get a random straggler. Those are my least favorite customers. I like to know people, how they react, what they want, and why they are the way they are. I find it easier to connect with them if I have a backstory. This morning has been going by as usual. It’s busy, but not overly stressful. The sight of an all-black car whipping into the parking lot catches my eye immediately. It’s too tinted. The lack of a front license plate throws me off as the car barrels toward the front windows. It's a car that I don't recognize, which isn't common. The door opens slowly, stopping just short of the car next to it. I watched, intrigued, as the man twists and maneuvers his body to slip through the narrow gap of the car’s partially opened door. I drift my eyes away from the man and towards Caroline, who was putting on a new pot of coffee.

“Who the hell is that?” I ask, my tone laced with curiosity.

She looks up, narrowing her blue eyes in his direction and scrunching her nose.

“I have no idea,” She replies as he steps toward the door, reaching out for the handle.

I quickly shift my eyes away from him, doing my best not to get caught staring.

It doesn't take long to notice him as he approaches the counter. He’s dressed simply, his eyes soft but intense, and there is an unspoken tension in his demeanor.

“Good morning,” I chirp in my best customer service voice.

He doesn’t speak a word but instead tilts his head to the side, staring intensely down at me. Maybe he's not a morning person.

“What can I get for you?” I ask in a friendly tone.

“Hot regular,” He snips back at me.

His attitude catches me off guard. I'm not used to dealing with such abrasive people.

“Is that it?” I stutter back.

He stares down at me, his eyes so brown they could easily be mistaken for black. He nods his head, taking the coffee from my hand wordlessly. I can't help but be taken aback by the exchange. This isn't my usual experience with a customer. I slide casually towards the register, tapping the correct buttons on the screen. Without a word, he taps his card to the screen and turns toward the door. Only once he's entirely in his car do I look back at Caroline.

“What the hell was that?” I ask, in shock.

She shakes her head as she looks back at me through a pair of oversized glasses, her platinum blonde ponytail bouncing around.

“I have no clue,” She giggles. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“No,” I agree, looking through the windows as he backs out of the parking lot. “He’s definitely new, and he can't be from here if he's driving around without a front license plate.”

I stray from the front counter and enter the back room in search of a broom. My mind travels all different paths as I slowly drag the broom across the floor. Perhaps he's a drug dealer, which explains the all-blacked-out car. Or maybe he's in the CIA. Something is intriguing about a man so comfortable with silence. Most people choke on the awkward tension of an interaction like that. I know I do. In this moment, I decide that if we ever see this man again, I will find out who he is. I know everyone in this town, and for the most part, I’m very good at connecting with people. I'm sure he won't be the exception.

• • • •

“What’s for dinner, babe?” Brandon’s loud voice rings out as soon as he comes through the front door.

He works a physical job in construction, so I do my best to keep everything in order at home for him every day. The house is clean, his laundry is done, and dinner is in the oven. There's nothing for him to worry about aside from taking a shower and getting comfortable. That's how it always is.

“Chicken,” I begin, leaning over the stove and mixing the simmering rice in the pan.

“Thank God,” He drawls. “I’m starving.”

I feel the familiar comfort of his arms wrapping around my waist as I continue stirring. The smell of sweat and chemicals invades my senses, and while it's not the best smell, it brings me comfort. Before Brandon, I typically dated emotionally unavailable men. I spent most of my twenties in a perpetual state of heartbreak. It was only when I met him that I realized what I actually deserved. He's always treated me with respect, despite the growing distance between us widening by the day.

“How was work today?” I smile, leaning my head back onto his chest.

He plants a quick, but sweet kiss on the top of my head before dropping his arms from me.

“It was good,” He says as he steps back. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”

“Okay,” I mumble as he leaves the room.

I stare back down at the rice, slowly simmering. I love the life I have; I worked so hard for it. Sometimes I can't stop the thoughts that maybe I could have done more with my life, regardless.

By the time dinner finishes cooking, Brandon is out of the shower and sitting down at the table. I make him a generous plate and bring it over to him while he stares down at his phone. I wish he'd spend more time with me instead of watching videos, but I won't complain either way. I sit down slowly, placing my own plate down gently. My move doesn't garner any attention from Brandon. For a while, I even scroll on my own phone while I eat. Occasionally, I’ll stare up at him to see how long it takes him to notice. So far, he hasn't, so I swallow down another bite and sigh heavily.

“What’s the matter?” He asks cheerfully, locking his phone and finally taking a second to look back at me.

I could tell him how I feel, that his disregard for me hurts my feelings, but I don't.

“Nothing,” I murmur, pushing my food around on my plate.

“How was your day?” He smiles, shoveling another bite into his mouth.

“It was alright, the same as always.”

“That's better than bad, right?”

I can feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to look up. I try my best not to get annoyed with him, but it's not always easy. He stands up, grabbing his plate and heading toward the kitchen.

“I was thinking maybe we could watch a movie tonight,” I yell to him in the other room.

We could use the time together, it's something we always used to do.

Before I can say anything else, he walks up behind me, gripping my shoulders.

“I’m sorry, babe,” He says nervously. “I told the boys I'd play Xbox with them tonight.”

My chest tightens immediately with disappointment.

“It’s okay,” I say, my tone laced with attitude.

“I love you,” He whispers as he walks away from me and opens the basement door.

“I love you too,”

Just like that, I’m alone again.