She burst through the door with the poise and grace of a wounded chicken taking flight. The sound of her elbow clipping the edge of the door frame reverberated through the paper-thin walls as she stumbled into the kitchen, her head bobbing listlessly to one side. Her arms wildly searched the cabinet doors, until she flung open the third set from the left, and then stopped. All this time, the man on the other side of the kitchen / living room never looked up from his typewriter as he sat on the couch, furiously clacking away at the old metal keys filling the room with an incessant sound of industry.
The woman began moving again, grabbing a cannister of coffee grounds, slamming it onto the counter, and then hobbling over to the coffee machine at the other end of the kitchen. The sound of running water melded with the no-longer subtle noise of the woman’s snoring as she managed to funnel almost half the water from the faucet into the coffee carafe while completely drenching her sleeves.
Next, the woman shoved the carafe into the coffee maker and clumsily pawed at the buttons until the machine beeped and chugged as the water heated up, percolating through yesterday’s coffee filter. The unused canister of grounds sat alone, unnoticed, at the other end of the counter.
The man looked up, and saw the canister and stopped. He said something beneath his breath, and then the clacking continued. Immediately, the woman jolted again, fumbling for the carafe with one hand, and grabbing it, turned towards the unused canister, letting her other hand swing carelessly along her body, unaware as it bumped against the side of the coffee maker. The coffee maker toppled over, spilling boiling hot water onto the floor. The woman yelped in pain.
“What the hell?” she cried as she hastily jumped out of the puddle of boiling water, dropping the carafe on the floor. It tumbled and spun, spewing steaming hot coffee onto the floor. Deftly, the woman stepped away and turned to face the man on the other side of the room who had ceased his work on the typewriter to stare dumbfounded at the woman.
“What the hell, Mike?” she demanded.
The man wiped beads of perspiration that had gathered on his forehead and swallowed hard. The woman glared at him, unblinking, her hands shaking slightly.
“At some point… at some point were you planning on waking me up? Or were you just going to work on your damn novel till I burned myself to death?”
“I… I’m sorry honey – ”
“Don’t you even start with that ‘sorry honey’ crap. The therapist still hasn’t found out why I’m sleep walking or how to stop it, but the least you could do is follow his simple directions and keep me from hurting myself,” she interrupted, her eyes welling up with tears. For several seconds neither of them spoke and as they breathed in the scent of stale coffee, fresh ink, and dirty carpets.
“I didn’t realize – I was… I was too focused. I’m sorry,” the man said, meeting woman’s gaze.
The woman slowly deflated and, sobbing, made her way to the lawn chair facing the couch, burring her face in her hands. “I know, I know, it’s not your fault. And you’ve been so good these past few weeks, I don’t know what I would have done without you,” she said quietly.
“Is there anything – ”
“Read to me. I want to hear your writing. You know I’ve always liked that,” she asked, a slight smile returning to her tear streaked face.
“Oh, sure,” he said, sitting back down behind the typewriter. “Just need to fix this last part,” he said and slowly punched a few keys. Not a moment later, the woman’s head fell to the side, eyes closed. She stood up and fumbled out of the room.
After she left, the man stood, removed the piece of paper from the typewriter and used it to sop up the spill in the kitchen. “Guess I’ll have to watch out for typos from now on,” he said softly to himself.