The Cup

Tomorrow at five in the afternoon, in front of the opera house, was the only thing he could hear inside his head as he tried to fall asleep (one of the most difficult things is to try to sleep when you’re anxious, you know). The voice in his head was the one he had imagined she would have. Sweet, melodious, soft, like her curls (I don’t know how a voice can be like curls, ask him).
He had “met” her two weeks before by e-mail. Cathy, a recent friend of his, had introduced them (if by “introduce” one means “give one another’s e-mail address”). She liked what he liked, she listened to what he listened. Both enjoyed what the other did as well and spent hours conversing on the subjects they found to be of interest. They had seen nothing more but pictures of each other. Both were feeling rather excited about meeting. But there was one difference.
He was a utopian. He had this troublesome habit of falling for women he barely knew or saw (or didn’t know at all, for that matter), and therefore had become sure that they’d be perfect for each other. People like this usually forget the other party’s thoughts.

‘What, you expect me to date him?’ she chuckled.
‘Don’t be silly!’ Cathy answered from the other end of the line, ‘I’m just saying he looks really thrilled about all this.’
‘So am I, but according to you, he won’t take me off his mind for one second! Doesn’t that seem a bit too much?’
‘He’s always been like that. Chill.’
‘Fine. Tomorrow we’ll see.’ Then she yawned. ‘I’m gonna watch some TV and head to bed. See you tomorrow!’
‘See you.’
Cathy hung up. She stood a bit staring at some point in infinity, then passed a hand through her hair and went to the kitchen. She opened the fridge and took a milk carton out, proceeding to fill a newly-washed cup and drink it all at once.
‘Oh boy’, she sighed.
She left the cup on the table and turned the lights off.

1 AM. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t think of a way to avoid going straight to the point the next day. He decided he would tell her straightaway. From every refusal he had gotten throughout his life, this had been going too well to lead to another of the kind. It would work, he thought. Getting up from his bed, he walked towards the kitchen. He wouldn’t get there before hitting the table’s legs at least twice with his shins, as usual. Apparently, he was too lazy to turn on the lights. He opened the fridge and took a milk carton out, proceeding to fill the cup on the table and drink it all at once.
‘The two of us,’ he said, daydreaming (it was late night, though), ‘How grand!’
He left the cup on the counter and tripped on a stool on his way back to the bedroom. His nose started bleeding (it has been proven that when the ground meets the nose at more than a certain speed, no good result is to come from that event). He rushed to the bathroom, hand covering the nose, and stuffed his nostrils with toilet paper while holding his head above the sink. He could never remember if he should raise the arm that was of the same side of the bleeding nostril or the other one. Both were bleeding anyway, so it wouldn’t do much difference. He looked in the mirror while waiting for the haemorrhage to stop, and then went back to bed. The day after would be a big one, he thought.

1 AM. Nothing on TV, yet she kept zapping away through all nine hundred ninety-nine channels:
‘The prime minister has decided-’ click, ‘...always said life was like a box of chocolates-’ click, ‘...and off they go! Leading-’ click, ‘What I mean-’ click, ‘...news, tonight’s lunar eclipse is-’ click.
She’d better get to sleep, she thought. There were things to do before five in the afternoon. She got up from the sofa, stretched, and went to the kitchen. Her cat closed his eyes for a moment when she switched the light on and came to her, purring against her shins.
‘I’m not a food dispenser, Lucifer,’ she told the pet, barely looking at it, ‘You’ve had enough for today.’
As if it had understood, the cat left the kitchen to lie in his basket all curled up and pouted. She opened the fridge and took a milk carton out, proceeding to fill the cup on the counter and drink it all at once.
‘Friendly conversations,’ she told herself, ‘That’s gonna be it, and nothing more.’
She left the cup in the sink and turned off the light, heading to bed. Reddish light entered her bedroom window.

1 PM. He flung the alarm clock against the closet door and buried his head under the pillow, grumbling unintelligibly. Apparently it had been ringing since 9 AM, but he’d only managed to fall asleep around five (you never know the exact moment you fall asleep, so you guess). He got up with a yawn and went to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, he noticed a large red circle around his nose and went to check the pillow again. He let out another grumble and washed the dry blood off his face, then going to put the pillowcase in the dirty laundry basket.
He went to the kitchen, giving the fallen stool a dirty look. He turned on the radio and began preparing breakfast (or lunch, whichever you prefer). Wagner’s prelude to the 3rd act of Lohengrin was on. A good energetic start, he thought, right before spilling strawberry jam all over the kitchen from his knife in a conductor’s spasm (he liked classical music, you see). He opened the fridge and took an orange juice carton out, proceeding to fill the cup in the sink and drink it all at once. He left it on the counter, put on his jacket and left in a hurry.

1 PM. She was back from the grocery store. The cat had been meowing since she left.
‘There, Lucifer,’ she said while searching for the can opener, ‘I got you some food, you self-obsessed fur ball!’
The coffee machine’s red light was on. She would always forget to turn it off before leaving, and to turn it on to warm up before preparing some as well. There were still some errands to do. She put the can of cat food on the fridge and got a bottle of water, proceeding to fill the cup on the counter and drink it all at once. She left it on the table, headed to the hall and closed the door behind her. The cat remained, lolling about in the living-room and playing with a crumpled piece of paper.

He was looking at everyone in the subway. He liked to see what people looked like and try to guess what they were thinking of. Two more stops and he’d be practically under the opera house. His heart raced. How would he tell her?
‘There is no... No.’ he started, but corrected himself, ‘I have come to tell you... I mean... Basically, I think I love you.’
A woman sitting next to him raised an eyebrow, got up and chose another seat. He felt awkward. The train stopped. Then restarted, growing again towards a deafening metallic sound. He shuffled in his seat. Would she react as he dreamed? Someone wanted to sit between him and the window. Nonsense. There was no such thing. Or was there? The train stopped. He gave room to the same person that had sat there a moment to leave (it’s rather bothersome when people disturb you to sit somewhere if they’re only going staying in the train for five minutes). There must be something of the kind. He’d make her understand (but why wasn’t he seating by the window, in the first place). The train stopped. Everything had to go well. He couldn’t bear another refusal, for it would be proof of terrible luck. And quite frankly, he was tired. Someone was listening to loud beating music (how irritating). The train stopped. One, two, three...
‘Shit!’ he jumped.
Now he had to get out and take the train in the opposite direction. He sighed and flumped back on the seat, resigned; but still anxious.

She stood in front of the opera house. The sky was rather grey, but it didn’t seem like it was going to rain. Ten minutes remained. She gazed at the golden busts up in several circular depressions of the building’s façade: Mozart, Beethoven, Rossini, Berlioz, Puccini, Wagner, Stravinsky... She sighed and looked at her surroundings. She gave a look at her watch. Hopefully Cathy was right.

He got out of the subway up into the street behind the opera house, on the opposite pavement (his heart beat at a rate that would have made Gene Krupa jealous). The pedestrian light was red, traffic was going by, and he couldn’t stop fidgeting. Things would be more stable from then on, he could feel it. There was a woman selling flowers on the other side; that was just perfect. He took out his wallet and checked if he had enough. Then he stepped forward.

‘I’m telling you,’ she said as she got down from the bus, ‘He didn’t show up!’
‘But why?’ Cathy asked from the other end of the line.
‘How should I know?’ she buttoned her coat as well as she could against the light rain, ‘I waited until six! His phone was always unavailable...’
‘I’ll tell you something when I see him on Monday...’
‘OK, see ya.’
‘Bye.’
She got home and turned on the lights. The cat was curled up in its basket. She dropped her purse on the sofa with a sigh and went to the kitchen. She took the cup from the table to place it in the sink, but it slipped and crashed into the floor.

Jolly Roger