When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the cracked cup in his left hand.
The inside of it was covered with dirt, rain, and pink petals. He carefully spilled some of the contents out, putting his hand inside to remove everything that wasn't the coffee he originally ordered. Even with that desire, however, he could no longer separate the rain from the coffee. Though, he never had the ability to do that. All he could do was make sure that he would do everything he could and not blame himself for being unable to clear the cup beyond what he was capable of.
He splashed the fluid and the dirt out, pouring it all on the soil.
The cup cracked with each moment.
He turned the cup back and looked inside. With his right hand, he popped the cup back to its original state, though he couldn't reverse all the cracks.
The once pure, black-colored coffee was like water, almost transparent. He brought it closer to his mouth, then sniffed from the cup. Unlike the potent scent he had before, now, there was nothing. Mashing together with the smell of rain and dirt, only a slight aroma of the roasted coffee beans reminded him of the coffee he tasted at the cafe.
It was neither warm nor fresh.
He put his lips to the brim and slightly elevated the cup. He watched as the remnants of the coffee slowly started to get closer to his mouth. The closer it got, the more he raised his hand. Eventually, the coffee reached him, first touching his lower lip, then his tongue, and lastly his throat.
It was cold, bitter, and had an awful taste.
He continued to pour it all down his throat, leaving an empty cup with stains on its white walls when finished.
Gulping, his Adam's apple moved up and then down. His face grimaced, sticking his tongue out a little.
A small whisper escaped:
"…Wish was warm…" His throat clenched.
Then, the cup was put down on the ground.
He slowly closed his eyes and put his head on the soil. The ground was like a pillow, soft and comfortable. His hands were on top of each other, resting on his chest.
Only the wind and his own breath filled the air.
It was calm.
He inhaled and then exhaled. Wasn't fast nor slow, just at the pace his heart needed. His hands were touching the soft, cold, and wet clothes. Though, where his hands were pressed against his shirt, a bit of that warmth transferred through them directly to his body.
The light painted the inner parts of his eyelids orange, warming his entire body as he was lying on the grassy field.
The taste of the black coffee still on his tongue, he swallowed. The more he tasted it, the more he thought the bitterness he felt wasn't as bitter as he remembered. And if it was, he didn't hate it anymore.
His muscles slack, his legs loose, sinking to the soil.
The warm sunlight on his skin, with the cool wind grazing his cheeks, keeping him at an optimal temperature.
Moment after he surrendered to the ground, a slight ticklish feeling came to his forehead.
It was light, barely even there.
Then, the wind started to pick up that weightless sensation on his skin.
The man raised his right arm, putting it on his forehead. There was a softer part to it, slightly rigid and smooth. He lightly grabbed it and raised his back from the ground.
Opening his eyes, the first thing he saw was a white feather.
With his thumb and index finger, he held it by the quill. Rolling the feather in his hands, he lightly slid his finger along the feather, watching as his hand created a small gap, which then restored after he pulled his finger away from the soft, silk-like texture.
Still rolling the quill between his fingers, he created small breezes, touching his face.
As he watched the feather rotating between his fingers, he looked up. The sun was brighter than ever, illuminating the entire sky, painting it yellow. Its dazzling light shone so greatly that the man's body heated up in moments.
As bright as the sun was, though, there was something else there just as intense as that warm light on his skin.
The storm.
Before him was the bright sky, but that darkness from behind was about to reach the hill, devouring the entire field with the grayness. With each moment, they got closer. Some of them had already suffocated the sunlight, coating them with thick layers of treacherous clouds.
The wind intensified, ripping the feather out of the man's hand.
However, this time around, the man didn't let that happen.
He held the white feather firmly, tightening his grip until that cold wind was gone, and when that happened, his eyes landed on his left pocket. With his left hand, he held up the fabric and slipped his other hand into his pocket, pulling out his shattered phone.