The coffee in my cup is already cold. I've put more in the pot to keep it cool while I look for a coin and flip a coin to decide whether to drink the rest cold or give it to the monstera in the living room. I've handled that poor plant like it's my underwear.
Espresso, with one hand on my hip, just like my grandmother used to do when she saw me "messing up" the living room cushions to play as a child, although she was more careful with her words and said that "I've already left the living room as big as her head." My plant is the one I've forced to stay with me ever since I said, "I want to be independent now." I've changed jobs three times since that announcement, and the only one who ends up paying the price is my dad, with whom I definitely shouldn't be so harsh.
I won't say I'm ashamed, even though I am. I'm tired and fed up with just hearing myself talk about how much life hurts; Yes, it hurts, but on days like this I feel like I can recover for up to three months, just with… two liters of coffee, a mushroom burger, and a blue Gudu Pop I found in my jacket pocket.
First things first, I start by changing the water in the vases. I soak the plants in white vinegar to clean the rotten roots and finally overcome my indecisiveness by pouring the coffee into a bucket I already had; water from soaked rice, lentils, and puddles of tea from the night before. “This brew needs about ten pesos more water,” I say aloud, confident that my roommates won't hear my monologue. They left for the Day of the Dead holiday weekend. Me… It's not that I wanted to stay, but there was something between my chest and my gut that told me: “Better stay this weekend.”
The coffee maker lets me know my potent black brew is ready, and I head downstairs with a trash bag and the dirty towels. Would it be too reckless to do laundry at this hour? It's barely eight o'clock at night, and the neighbor seems to have visitors; I don't think the noise of the washing machine is going to be an issue.
I run up and downstairs, up and downstairs, turn my room upside down, and tidy it up again. It's spotless, but the cup I'd poured myself is cold again, and I resign myself to using the microwave. I go back upstairs and downstairs with my laptop, open the pending files for my work, and ask the intercom for the time. Before it answers, it grumbles "good night" and then tells me the time: 8:45 p.m. The washing machine finishes, and I hang up the towels, trip over the bucket, splash water on my pajamas, kick a flowerpot, and that tiny utility room , two by one square meter, turns into a mud puddle. Oh well… I take off my clothes right there and throw them in the wash. Now I really do look crazy. I forgot the living room curtain is up, and it's the only way to get to my room. —Blessed be the body of Christ and the eyes that behold mine—. I grab a freshly laundered wet towel and dash for the stairs.
Now dressed in my most comfortable shorts and tightest blouse, I'm determined to leave no trace of my clumsiness. The patio is unrecognizable, and all it took was asking Alexa to play some music and set a timer. —If I don't clean this in less than twenty minutes, I'm going to explode—.
I'm thirsty… —My coffee, damn it!—. Reheated and cold, I gulp it down. Almost like something out of a cartoon, I feel like I've been wound up and slapped twice. I feel like a new person; it's 9:30 p.m. and all I want to do is get my chores done.
Up, down, up, down… Another album is finished, and the house is completely dusty, with no excuse left to avoid sitting down at the computer and doing what I said I was going to do at nine this morning. I didn't go to the park, nor did I buy groceries; I only managed to put out a humble offering that seems more like a spirit than the ghost of my dog. I hope the mandarin tree I planted didn't get in his way when he tried to go out and play for a while. I hope Otto comes at least in my dreams to wag his tail, sneeze a couple of times, and rest his little head on my shoulder like he did his whole life. The poor thing died a virgin, but he was a very spoiled dog by my friends and me. He made sure to greet them one by one, like the gentleman he was, at parties, and he'd go out to the patio to keep them company when they lay down. Well, when they wanted to breathe fire. Otto was a true friend.
I turn my gaze back to this scene and, against my will, I start typing. The Google search bar looks tempting: "How many liters of coffee can kill a person?" I close the tab and clutch my head in my hands. If I don't finish this, I'm going to outlive my great-grandmother. Although, of course, that would be a punishment: she lived to be 107 and only passed away in June 2024.
My phone is off for purely practical reasons. I have no self-control, but then again, no one texts me, so technically my usage is limited to looking at cooking recipes, reviews of books I'm not going to read, crafts, and celebrity Halloween costumes. I type and type until I finish something and a little bit of guilt leaves my body.
Photography by Carlos Arturo Gómez Robles
