Sunday Morning
I had prepared coffee and some leftover cookies for myself. Blew on the cup to cool it down, then realized it was too hot for the weather—and set it aside.
Jack Dawson, my new neighbor, stood barefoot on his own balcony just a few feet away, separated only by a thin partition of wooden railing and the silence of a lazy Sunday. He unfolded the newspaper, a coffee mug resting between his palms. The steam had stopped rising ten minutes ago, but he hadn't noticed.
"What's on your mind?" I asked, aiming for casual—man talk.
"Not much," he muttered, eyes down. "Just a few accusations of cheating... from my wife."
"Strong allegations," I said, dunking a cookie into my cooling coffee as steam curled in the air. "Sounds true."
He chuckled lightly and placed his mug on the table, avoiding it just like I had.
"Won't you have the coffee?" I asked, more curious than concerned.
The chainsmoker slid a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a gold vintage lighter, flicking it open with practiced ease. The flame kissed the tip, and smoke curled toward the open sky.
"No," he said, puffing slowly. "Once the coffee gets cold, it loses all its taste."
For a while, neither of us spoke. The sound of sprinklers ticked on from someone's yard. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked twice.
Then Jack 's voice returned, quieter this time.
"You ever think about leaving?" he asked, staring ahead.
"Leaving?" I frowned. "No. Why?"
He didn't look at me. Just smoked.
"Sometimes a new place helps," he said. "Other times, it follows you."
A crow landed on the fence below us, head tilted unnaturally like it was listening.
"Strange bird," he murmured. "They say crows remember faces."
I turned to say something, but Jack crushed his cigarette into the ashtray, the motion sharp and final.
"I'm saying," he muttered, "once things turn cold... they never taste the same again."
"Oh?" I picked up the cup I'd set aside to let cool. "You sure know a lot about hot and cold methods. Not surprising for someone like you."
He stopped mid-puff, the cigarette hanging between his fingers. Then he turned, slowly, eyes narrowing like I'd just insulted his mother.
"A nosy neighbor..." he muttered, "trying to have a chat and judge me like one of those local aunties with binoculars and no life."
I dipped a cookie into my coffee. It broke off and sank.
Timing is everything.
"Jack!"
The shout came shrill and slicing from inside his house.
A woman's voice.
"Where were you last night?"
"At my friend's," he called back coolly, tossing the lie like he'd practiced it in the mirror.
Jack winced again. His composure cracked like the cookie I'd drowned in my mug.
He didn't speak—just stood there with her fist still twisted in his hair, like he deserved it. Maybe he thought he did.
"Clara, ease up," he muttered. Voice low, almost bored. But I could hear the grit underneath. The pain he wasn't showing.
"Don't 'Clara' me," she snarled, yanking harder.
Something about the way his neck bent made me flinch.
"You stink of cheap perfume and worse lies."
She shoved something in his face—a napkin, maybe. Lipstick smeared across it like a signature.
"It's not mine," he said automatically. Not even convincing himself.
Few minutes later, Clara stormed onto the balcony.
Her hand grabbed a fistful of his hair with surgical precision—like she'd done this before. And from the look on her face, she wasn't pulling for affection.
He winced.
Honestly, I'd never paid much attention to his hair before, but it was surprisingly... luscious. Too luscious. I wouldn't be shocked if he turned up tomorrow with a bald patch—or a missing chunk of scalp. Her grip looked strong enough to extract brain from his skull.
He balanced himself and stood up, pushing Clara away from his hair with a sudden shove. He fixed it quickly, fingers massaging the spot like it throbbed.
"Are you trying to make me bald? Huh?" he snapped, panting like he'd just escaped a lion.
"I should make you bald," she seethed. "So no one ever has to look at your ugly, lying head again."
He gritted his teeth, then hurled the coffee cup off the balcony.
It shattered on the pavement below.
"Hey!" I leaned forward. "How dare you do that to my cup?"
I laughed under my breath, enjoying the show with a perfectly dipped cookie. The coffee had finally reached that sweet spot—not too hot to scald the tongue, not too cold to feel forgotten.
And of course, a little neighborhood drama to season my morning.
"My dear friend, Malcolm, died yesterday," Jack announced, suddenly shifting gears, his tone grasping at sympathy.
"Who?" Clara blinked. "Malcolm?"
"Gosh, Clara," he groaned. "Malcolm! My childhood buddy—from the same village!"
"You were born in the city, you dumbass."
He looked down at his feet, fingers twitching—somewhere between shame and confusion. Hard to tell the difference when both wear the same face.
"The point is, my dearest Malcolm died of lung cancer!" he shouted, trying to reclaim the emotional high ground.
She tilted her head, voice ice-cold.
"I see. A chainsmoker… mourning a chainsmoker."