Laura Droege holds a M.A. in English from the University of Alabama in Huntsville and is a former English as a Second Language teacher. Currently, she is working on her first novel. She lives in Huntsville with her husband and two daughters.

Coffee

Nicole shook me awake. I rolled over, smelled coffee, and through the dim haze of waking, I heard her say, “Eli’s dead.” I looked at my roommate’s tears and the words sank down into me until I felt dead, too.

Dark two-lane road. A car accident. Another car crossed the double line. Two separate objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. A law of physics translated into reality: Miata versus SUV? The Miata lost.

After this, I drank more coffee than I served at Starbucks. Nicole tried to comfort me: “He’s home now, Crissy.” This comforted me about as much as the preacher at the funeral did: “Eli pointed others to Jesus.” So why did God take down his best billboard ad? How can heaven be home when you’ve never been there? I didn't believe them.

I had a home once. It consisted of a chronically hung-over father and a brother who called me a bonehead. If heaven was like that, I didn't want any part of it.

Eli would listen to me rant about this when we took our break at Starbucks. He’d strum his guitar, whistle his latest song, but his heart listened even while his ponytail nodded with the rhythm. Then he would say something that cut through my rhetoric: something incomprehensible to ponder when I had insomnia.

I talked about coffee, too. Coffee’s been my passion since the hung-over dad-figure served it to me at age two. He had beer and coffee in the house; he figured coffee would hurt me less than alcohol and was less likely to get him in trouble with my daycare workers. A caffeinated toddler is just bouncy but an intoxicated one brings the risk of legal action, something he avoided as much as work. My earliest memory is the smell of coffee; if I cut myself open, I would bleed coffee.

Eli’s veins flowed with God. Everything he said could be considered spiritual, depending on the looseness of your definition. This day, he told me about his song. “It’s called ‘Satisfaction.’”

“What does a virgin know about satisfaction?”

Eli didn't redden, even though he had taken a vow of celibacy and hadn't kissed anyone other than his mama. He cocked an eyebrow. His grin played hide-and-seek with me through his beard.

“Crissy, you’re too easily pleased.”

“Nothing satisfies me.”

“Exactly. You try to get pleasure from stuff that can't satisfy and then get mad when you don't.”

“Whatever.”

“Sex. Coffee. Quick comebacks. It all lasts about two minutes—”

“Sex lasts longer than two minutes. Three at least, if the guy’s good in bed.”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t know myself.” A few guitar strums filled the silence. “Have you ever been thirsty?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I’ve been thirsty.”

“So you drink coffee. Then what happens?”

“Caffeine jolt.”

The man who drank only water smiled. “I mean, are you still thirsty?”

“Yes.”

“So what do you do?”

“Drink more coffee. Eli, what's your point?”

“Coffee can't satisfy your thirst permanently the way water does.” He put his guitar away. “Think about it.” The case lid snapped closed.

Break time was over. He didn't say anything more about coffee, water or satisfaction but I got the impression this was about God. If I was supposed to feel grateful that he didn't quote the Bible, I wasn't. I wasn't curious, either. God and I are not on speaking terms and that’s fine by me.

I tried to think of bad things about Eli, thinking I’d eventually remember only those things and hate him, just like I did my father and brother. But it was hard to remember those things. There weren’t all that many of them, for one thing. He had been an all-round nice guy. (To hear Nicole talk, he is a nice guy, just in heaven instead of here.) He had some irritating quirks: carried around his guitar like a codependent partner, drank only water even though he worked at Starbucks, talked about God too much. Customers asked for advice on what kind of coffee to order and Eli would make up some absurd coffee drink: lemonade latte, strawberry-kiwi mocha, hazelnut green tea. On one memorable occasion, a lady actually ordered a blue tea with a triple shot of mango, just because Eli smiled so darned convincingly. 

He talked me into coming to some games night with his churchy friends on Friday. It wound up being the night he died. Normally, the only game I ever played was strip poker. But boyfriend #15 had dumped me and Eli's grin brainwashed me into thinking this might be fun. Maybe boyfriend #16 would show up.

No dice. I panicked when I saw the students crowded into the apartment. It was like a whole dang church in there. There was the street evangelist who stood in the quad and preached to the art majors who were there for Live Nude Drawing 101. There was the purity queen who passed out waiting commitment cards each Valentine’s day. There were students who spent Saturday mornings protesting in front of Planned Parenthood with signs that read “Abortion Kills Children.” Plopped in the middle was Eli, laughing at a joke Purity Queen told. Then Protester #1 and Evangelist started playing guitars and singing about Jesus.

I started to stage my own protest by walking out, but Eli saw me. “Hey, Crissy.” I tried not to puke as Nicole and Purity Queen harmonized on the song.

Eli tugged me onto the balcony. “Too much God-talk, huh?” He handed me a water bottle with a squirt top and took a swig of his own.

The humidity in the air dropped on me and I was sticky, but damned if I was going back into that apartment with the church troupe installed there. “You lied to me.”

He cocked his head. “How so?”

“Those clowns aren’t here for games, Eli. They’re singing hymns—”

“Praise choruses. They will play games. That’s usually what happens: games, singing, food. I told you that.”

“You didn’t say what kind of singing. Yuck.”

He laughed. “You have a most expressive forehead.”

I glared at him.

“Sorry. The singing's awful, huh?”

“Creepy. They're insane.”

“They don’t know how to relate to you any more than you know how to relate to them.”         

The heat made thinking impossible. “Too hot to think.”

“Have some water. It’ll cool you off.” He gulped his water and nodded at me.

It was the nod that did it. I slugged him with water from my bottle. Surprised, he brushed off the water. I saw the idea creep into his face, and he squirted me back.

The battle was on. The small balcony gave us little room to maneuver or advance or retreat. I ducked behind a plastic chair and sprayed his legs. Then he jumped onto the chair and dumped water on my head. Dregs of hair slapped my face as I aimed for his chest. Bull’s eye. Water dripped off the railing and my shirt stuck to my skin. Just as I reached to slug Eli again, he grabbed my arms and held them above my head. “Surrender?” His grin was infectious.

“Never.”

He poured the last of his bottle down the back of my shirt. I squealed and he dropped my arms.

We laughed at the mess we had made with our silliness. A slight breeze blew and I felt cool and comfortable.

“Can't do that with coffee, hmm?”

“Guess not.”

Now that Eli was dead, I wondered about the water battle. Why did the water awaken me more than a triple-shot espresso?

On break, I poured a cup of water. I watched sweat run down the side into a circle around the bottom. The balding man with a laptop next to me glanced over, like a girl staring at a glass of water was entertaining. He had a water bottle, not the dinky cups from Starbucks’ complimentary water pitchers, but a gallon jug of ice water. I scowled and he riveted his stare back at the computer. I had this weird feeling Eli was watching me; maybe this guy was Eli reincarnated? That would be a hoot: pony-tailed Eli coming back as a bald guy.

Back to the water. Break was over and I hadn’t tasted it. My head longed for a caffeine jolt, but I decided to honor Eli’s memory. I took the tiniest possible sip. Nasty. Mingled with my espresso aftertaste, the water disgusted me. I threw it away.

Next afternoon, the bald, laptop addicted man sat and worked, his jug of ice water beside him. I traced the circle of condensation on the table from my water cup. Maybe he was some quasi-spiritual being from the afterworld sent to check on me, because when our eyes met, he said, “You going to drink that water, kid? It's good for you.” He took a big gulp.

I despised being called “kid.” Spitefully, I sipped the water long and slow, like he'd given me a dare. I hadn’t had any coffee for six hours, so my usual coffee aftertaste didn't coat my tongue. Still, I figured the water would be disgusting again. It still didn't taste good, but it was cold and wet and had a hint of lemon flavor. I swished it around in my mouth, then swallowed. The cup went in the trash, I returned to filling paper cups with mocha and hazelnut, and the laptop guy went back to the Internet.

The man showed up a third time. I’d never laid eyes on him before this week. Since he never ordered anything, just drank his water, I thought he might be here for the free Wi-Fi. He came around my break time, stayed for an hour, and then left.

I sat at my table, watching him through my eyelashes' fringes, drinking my water. I had decided to see what water tasted like without the coffee aftertaste, so for the first time since I was five, I hadn’t had my morning java for three days straight. (Nicole kept asking why I hadn't brewed any coffee. When I snapped at her, she put her hand to my forehead to check for a fever. I snapped again. “Oh, Crissy, you’ve given up coffee for Lent, haven’t you? Eli would be so proud.” Forgetting, of course, that it wasn't Lent and Eli wasn’t into deprivation per se; he would’ve said that he was into higher satisfactions than mere food could bring.)

The water hit my throat with a jolt. Goosebumps danced across my skin. I remembered that night on the balcony, the breeze racing across my skin, Eli grinning, me grinning back, the odd distinction of being cool on a summer night and feeling alive. I gulped down the last of the water.

Laptop man smiled. “Told you—water’s good, huh?”

Midway through an eye roll, I caught myself smiling. “You know Eli?”

“Who?”

So much for my theory. “Friend of mine. Always wanted me to drink water.”

“Good.” He stood. “Keep drinking it, kid.” He walked out the door and I never saw him again.

I intended to throw away the cup, but instead, I held onto it. The water had tasted good. Now I could get some coffee and return to my usual state of caffeination. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that. I looked at the pitchers of water with lemons floating on top. Dammit, Eli had been right. He’d laugh at my ruefulness about this if he were here. It made me smile and made me wonder if he had been right on other things. I reached for the water pitcher and filled my cup to the brim. Would God ever want to be on speaking terms with me? Would I even want that as a possibility?

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