I was sitting in Mary’s basement apartment, slumped on the couch there, the old maroon squishy smells like dog one. She handed me a cup of coffee and I accepted, feeling the quiet, restless nature of the room. There were windows, narrow things that peered over just the top of the room and didn’t let a lot of light in. Outside of these windows was grass, just a little, patchy and yellow because it cost too much for the manager to water them during the summer.
Mary was in the kitchen, which was just a tiny bit apart from the rest of the room, distinguishable by the postage stamp of counter and the dark white refrigerator, covered with photographs and souvenir magnets depicting things like cacti and sunsets.
Did she look like she belonged in the kitchen? I don't know. On one hand, her fingers flicked nimbly through the recipes in a large post-it-marked cookbook; on the other hand that was her mom's cookbook and she had only just pulled it off a shelf where it looked like dust had been piling like dandruff on its shoulders.
My legs were crossed on the couch, pulled up underneath me. I held the cup in two hands, not drinking, just letting the steam drift up around my head. I always preferred the smell of coffee to its taste. I heard Mary put down the cookbook in defeat and pad back into the living room, bare feet on throw rugs. She sunk down next to me, smiling in a faraway way.
"How are you doing?" she asked me, pulling dark hair back behind an ear. What a question.
"Better, I think. Well, not exactly better, just... You know," I paused, taking a long time to sip my coffee. I felt the warmth spread throughout my body, which comforted me a bit "Thanks."
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