Percolator

The percolator is wheezing and the heavy scent of coffee spreads throughout the kitchen. Most of the coffee has long since vaporised and there is only about half an inch left at the bottom. On the tablecloth stands clean, unused porcelain. White and blue Chinese china. Tiny blue birds make a still, eternal flight through cold blue foliage and an empty white sky. They will never go anywhere, they will remain exactly as they are forever. In that way they are far more perfect than any man or woman. Unchangeable, they are exactly what you see: no more and no less.

The creature by the table looks down at it’s hands, they’re not used to being kept idle. It struggles not to fidget. Frowning, it pulls a hand through its wild hair. The lover who just left annoys it. It can’t stand the shrill voice and the persistent chatter. Nor could it stand the tears and the scene its lover made when it broke it off. It can’t understand the reason for it. Its cheek aches from where its lover slapped it, it can feel its redness as though it was half-blushing yet it doesn‘t feel ashamed. Not for its words, nor for its actions. Why should it? That woman is old enough to take care of herself, why should she be its responsibility? It had never asked that woman for anything nor had it ever claimed to love her. So why should it have to give anything of itself to that empty headed, self-centred mannequin? True it had enjoyed that woman’s passion and it had delighted in her beauty. But slowly and surely it had grown bored and lost interest. Then it had found itself annoyed when she showed up on its doorstep and demanded attention. It is quite sure that what has been hurt is not so much the woman’s feelings as her pride. It is quite certain that woman never loved it.
“You‘re nothing but a cold doll! You don‘t care about anyone but yourself!” The woman had shrieked as she slammed the door shut. True perhaps. In its mind it can remember the angry clicks of the high-healed shoes. How strange it is that footsteps can sound angry. It hadn’t really thought about it before. The thought amuses it. Are there happy footsteps? Sad ones? Silly ones? It wonders how its footsteps sound to others.

It draws another sigh of relief. At least it is over now and it can work again. No more interruptions will anger and disturb it. No more pleas for what it is unable to give. Its fingers drum on the table, the percolator keeps wheezing in its friendly way. To the creature it seems the kitchen is like the set on a stage. The unused china, the table and the wheezing percolator. Playing out a farce. Or is it a tragedy? It’s not entirely sure. Perhaps it’s both. “Come and see the puppet show. Pull the strings and watch them dance.” It mumbles to itself. Is it the puppeteer or merely the puppet? There is sugar spilt on the table, tiny white beads. Absentmindedly it puts the edge of its nail against one of them and presses down. The bead shatters into fine powder. It moves its finger to the next one and then the next, until there are no more beads left. The tablecloth now has fine, white sugar-powder ground into its fabric. It leans back, the afternoon is too warm and there is not even a breeze to alleviate the terrible, mind numbing heat. It feels itself grow heavy and slow. There is a spiders’ web in the corner of the ceiling; it stares at it with half closed eyes. Perhaps it’s like the spider. When a fly gets caught in its net and complains: “You tricked me! I wanted something different.” Would it answer the same as the creature? “I never tricked you. You saw what you wanted to see and it’s not my fault that it’s not the truth.” It sighs, these thoughts are meaningless. Hot days always make it feel sluggish and think of strange things. The smell of the coffee is soothing and makes its eyes grow even heavier.
It should get up and put the cups away but it’s simply too tired to move. It leans back and balances the chair on the back legs. That, in a way, is life. An eternal balance, lean too far back and you'll fall and hit your head. Lean too far forward and the chair will tip back to standing steadily on all four legs. Most people leave their chair standing steady, yet that is not really life, it thinks. The stagnant safety of normality, how can you cling to that and still claim to be alive? You need to balance, perhaps one day you'll fall back and the fall might even kill you. But the feelings that it gets when it is right at the top makes it all worth the risk. You need to balance, it tells itself. Or maybe, just maybe, it should just let its muscles relax and let itself fall? It wonders what you might see in those moments before you hit the ground. Then it sighs and gets up from its chair, it needs to work. There are too many things it has to do and nowhere near enough time to do them.
It picks the cups up and carefully puts them away in a cupboard. It steps over to the percolator, grabs the pot, draws in a deep breath to enjoy the final waft of the scent and pours the coffee down into the sink.

It doesn’t drink coffee.