The morning was unfolding with the heavy, unhurried pace of a Victorian novel that no one actually wants to finish. I stood at the kitchen counter, my hands performing the ancient, mechanical liturgy of the bean, measuring out the grounds with a precision that would have made my old firm proud if they weren't so busy being defunct. The coffee maker began its labored breathing, a series of wet gasps and gurgles that sounded like a steam engine trying to clear its throat after a long night of bad decisions. It is a comforting noise, and I stood there for a moment just watching the carafe fill with that dark, obsidian liquid that serves as the only real anchor in an increasingly fluid world.
I carried my prize into the living room, along with a newspaper that felt suspiciously light, as if the world had simply run out of things to complain about overnight. The recliner received me with a series of mechanical sighs, the footrest clicking into place like the landing gear of a very slow, very stationary aircraft.
For a while, the only sound was the rustle of newsprint and the occasional distant hum of a neighbor’s lawnmower, which seemed optimistic given the state of the sky. I was deep into a section on local zoning laws, the kind of reading that acts as a natural sedative, when a new sound drifted in from the kitchen. It was a soft, repetitive licking noise, followed by a metallic *clack* that I recognized as the lid of the brewing unit.
I stayed still for a second, my mind cataloging the possibilities like a diagnostic computer with a failing power supply. Reggie is a cat of many talents, most of them involving the creative destruction of my peace of mind, but he usually avoids the kitchen counter unless there is a rogue piece of ham involved. This sound was different, it was the sound of someone performing a chore.
I rolled out of the chair, my knees voicing their usual protests in a language of pops and clicks, and crept toward the doorway.
Reggie was perched on the edge of the counter, his silhouette framed against the morning light like a furry gargoyle. He had used his head to wedge the reservoir lid open, and he was currently elbow-deep in the clear, cool water that I had just poured in ten minutes ago. He wasn't drinking. He was scrubbing. He was using the plastic tank as a personal basin, dipping a white paw into the water, pulling it out to lick it clean, and then plunging it back in for a thorough rinse. He looked up at me, his expression one of mild annoyance at being interrupted during his private ablutions, and then he deliberately dipped the other paw in.
The reservoir is a closed system, or at least it was until Reggie decided it was a hot tub.
I stood there frozen, the engineering part of my brain immediately generating a flow chart of the plumbing. The water goes from that tank, through a heating element, and directly into the filter basket. There is no middleman. There is no filtration system for feline dander or whatever else he had been tracking across the linoleum before he decided to freshen up. The coffee currently sitting in my mug, the coffee I had already taken three very satisfying sips of, was effectively a hot, roasted extraction of Reggie's morning stroll.
It was a total system failure. The bridge had collapsed, and I was standing on the ruins with a ceramic cup in my hand.
Reggie finished his work, shook his damp limbs with a casual arrogance that I almost admired, and hopped down to the floor. He paused at my feet to rub his head against my shin, a gesture that felt less like affection and more like a signature on a bill of sale. He had reclaimed the kitchen. He had colonized the morning. Probably both.
I walked back to the recliner and sat down, though I didn't bother with the footrest this time. I looked into the depths of the mug, watching a small bit of cream swirl around like a galaxy that had been built on a foundation of lies. The aroma was still perfect, a rich and nutty scent that mocked my sudden, profound understanding of the world’s hidden textures.
Hard to tell.
