Oct - Dec Updates (and a lil treat)

“Catch and Release”

by Jaq Evans

The descaler light on Fay’s DeLonghi espresso machine has been on for two months; it turned red the day after Mark moved out, and she resented that so much she started paying five dollars a day for coffee from the cafe down the block. She can afford the coffee because without Mark, she doesn’t spend money on alcohol or tapas or gas for the car (he took that). But eventually, inevitably, someone comes over to check on her. It’s Terese from work, they used to eat lunch together before Fay screamed at her for eating her yogurt cup and then burst into tears—this was the week after Mark left—and since then Fay’s been too embarrassed to speak to Terese. So when she opens the door that Sunday morning to find the other woman in her hallway, eyes warm and worried under her box braids, Fay is so surprised she lets Terese inside.

Panic strikes immediately. Fay’s place is a worst case scenario. Mark was the cleanly one; mess gave him anxiety and caused him to butterfly around the apartment, tidying this, sanitizing that. Fay takes Terese to the kitchen because it’s small and she has no dishwasher, which has forced her to at least keep it navigable.

“Do you want some coffee?” she asks, desperate to do something the way people who aren’t in crisis might, forgetting the descaler light beneath the weight of Terese’s soft voice talking to her about the last time she went through a bad breakup. Fay fills a pitcher with tap water. “You’re sweet for coming by,” she says, straining to open the reservoir, which is flush against the wall and probably half-full from who knows how long ago. “But I’m doing much better.”

An odd smell plumes as she pours more water into the espresso machine. A little fruity, a lot dank, it sticks in her nostrils. Fay slaps the lid shut. It’s fine. Water doesn’t go bad. The beans are just old. And the descaler is on an automatic timer, it’s not like it’s tied to how much coffee you make, and she and Mark rarely used it in those last few months, too busy getting out of the house as soon as they could every morning. So it’s fine. She’ll make Terese stale, sour coffee and Terese will never come back. They chat about the big project they’re both assigned to this quarter as Fay arranges a mug and presses the Americano button, her pointer finger vicious, showing the espresso machine who’s boss. It grumbles to work while the descaler light glows, baleful and ignored.

Fay offers Terese the mug and uses a butter knife to pry loose the cake of used grounds so she can brew another; she won’t drink it, but it’s something to do.

“Delicious,” Terese says after sipping, which proves to Fay she can’t be trusted. Probably here seeking intel she can report back to their supervisor. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Terese continues. “It’s hard to be on your own after so long living with someone else, but it sounds like you’re starting to get to the good parts. Peeing with the door open, am I right?”

“I don’t do that,” Fay lies for no reason. She feels clumsy and ill-at-ease, her social battery humiliatingly low. When is the last time she had a conversation with someone that wasn’t about the grocery check-out line? “But I do like keeping the air conditioning whatever temperature I want.”

She turns from the espresso machine, hoping for a smile, something to prove this exchange is going well so it can be over sooner. But Terese is looking at her mug. Her face has changed. Instead of wide with compassion, her brown eyes are narrowed, searching. She coughs wetly. Her lips press together, then part, and she flings the mug to the floor.

“Hey,” Fay cries. Terese puts her hands on her thighs, bends at the waist, and vomits.

Dark liquid spatters onto off-white tile, and in it, small pale slivers writhe.

The coffee machine announces its second finished mug and Fay can’t stop herself looking; the foam on top settles and underneath it are a dozen tiny creatures. They dart around the inside of her mug like fingernail cuttings, but when she leans closer, horror and fascination breaking something in her brain, Fay sees the miniscule bulbs of what will eventually become eyes. Terese is retching on hands and knees. Larvae slide from her nostrils still wriggling, drop to the floor with a faint plip; Fay sees movement in the gap between her top front teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Fay says, her own gut rising, “I have to get the rest—”

She pulls the reservoir out from the back of the espresso machine and nearly buckles, gray water sloshing toward the cap. The bottom of the reservoir is coated in brownish sludge with something large and partially dissolved in one corner. Pale fragments of dead larvae float like snow while more swim near the surface. Fay dumps it into the sink and that fruity, rotting stench fills the room; she and Terese gag again as Fay remembers the night Mark walked out. Their worst fight yet. He’d come home late again, from the state fair where he busked doing sleight-of-hand magic. He’d brought her a gift to soften the blow, which she’d barely registered, already seething by the time he walked in the door.

A plastic bagged goldfish.

Fay hadn’t looked for the fish after Mark left. Had, in fact, forgotten it entirely. But as she watches the fry circle the drain after the rotting remains of their mother, Terese sobbing and snotty behind her, Fay can’t fight a smile.

Fuck that guy, she thinks, good riddance. And thank god: for the first time, she believes it.