Personal Narrative: The Coffee Machine

The cold wind bites at my fingers and face as I struggle to find my keys in the mess that is my bag. When I finally get my hands on them, I hurry inside the still dark shop, locking the door behind me and slowly making my way to the back, where I can finally light up the room. It’s still May, so the sun is only getting up when I arrive for the morning shift. I’m early; Kallan is usually there before me, but I just couldn’t manage to go back to sleep, even when I went back in the warmth of my sheets. I already kept myself occupied for a few hours by now - watching reruns of old TV shows, obscure conspiracy documentaries; I did my makeup, washed my hair, tidied up my room, even went on a walk in the park that’s on my way to work - but I just

It’s a fire hazard - especially in a flower shop like this -, it only works perfectly once in a blue moon, and it makes the most horrendous coffee you’d ever tasted, but somehow, Kallan still keeps it. I’d call it nonsense, but even I can’t deny a certain attachment to the object, especially after it pulled me through some severe all nighters and asshole customers. You’d think the whole “flower shop” thing would attract more of the “kill them with kindness” kind, wouldn’t

I didn’t, at first, but an over ten years old friendship is not something you give on so easily. The phone rang, one day, and there was Kallan. I’d never thought of her as the spontaneous type, but there she was, telling me with an eagerness I’d rarely known from her about her new life and projects - telling me about how leaving was the best decision she could have ever made, about her new friends, new work.

It stung, a little bit, to know she was so happy without us losers from her “old” life, but nevertheless, I congratulated her, and kept close contact for the next two years or so. Sting, uh. I wonder if my absence felt the same way - though I could hardly say I’m living my best life, here.

Though, now that I could see it with my own eyes, I’m assured that she made the right choice. It’s funny, how tables turn. Or maybe we’re on the same side of that table. Outsider, uh. I don’t need to go home to know that my departure is probably causing the same ruckus.

“You seem tired,” Kallan notes, side eyeing me from our front window display.
“Do I now?” I say, biting my lip in the process - it’s not that I enjoy lying to Kallan, but I know I will never hear the end of it if I