HAPLESS JORGE AND THE MILK INCIDENT

08.04.2014

No milk. Staring into the empty cavity of my fridge, barren contents stare back, mocking me. An overturned jug of cream with its monochromatic bloodstain, laughed aloud, pitying my predicament more than its own lingering death. Fat, green, gherkin fingers jiggled in their juices, the gag not lost inside the sealed jar, nor on the box of pizza; the few surviving slices of a drunken Saturday night, crisp on the outside and curling through the middle.

I slammed the door, shutting out the mockery. Of course this was the sort of morning with no milk because it was exactly the sort of morning I needed the damn milk. I needed it like I needed breath; cool, delicious thickness soothing a night of too much cigar smoke and straight whiskey, pacification of the lingering hallucinations still stabbing the edges of my sanity.

I sank onto the kitchen counter; cold, gripping skin with prickly goose bumps. The shock welcoming and real, so very real, unlike muffled giggles exuding from the refrigerator. The milk had run off. I couldn’t be bothered going out to collect more. Not now, I was too involved here.

Punching on the kettle, I glared, challenging, as the red light flickered before stabilising. I grabbed a mug; brown stain of coffee thick around the inside. A quick splash of water would rectify. Rusty, blood smelling syrup spewed from pipes. Walls around me rattled. I gagged, growling at the faucet. Slapping the spout away, I slammed mug on bench. Coffee stain and rust-rinse be damned! I fished for a spoon in the drawer, to be answered only by forks and knives; steel reflecting misery and self-loathing. Not a spoon in sight.

‘Damn you milk!’ I cursed the heavens. The kettle hissed a response, steam rushing the spout, refusing to disconnect the boil. Of course! I flicked it off, half expecting resistance, or electric shock. I snatched up the jar of coffee. Spoon be damned too! I erupted into hysterical laughter, as I unscrewed the lid and poured black gold straight into the cup. Granules disintegrated in rusty muck at the bottom, expanding to thick brown puddles. More granules gushed over the rim, pursuing freedom. Sugar joined coffee; a pair that complemented best when hot and milky, measured precisely, one spoon and two. Not today. Boiled water liquidised ingredients, uniting lost loves, entwining dissolved succulence forever. Forever for them was not long at all.

I hauled the fridge door open. A gasp cut short as occupants beheld my wrath: top lip curled, nose turned up exposing a murderous canine, eyes narrowed and readying for revenge. I cackled maniacally, gathering the cream. Rogue globules jumped free but entrapped remnants were too late. Thick blobs plopped unwittingly into black coffee, melting in pools of curdled liquid. Black and white mingled into the perfect salvation of a morning near ruined.

Retrieving a knife, I stirred the coffee. No longer lamenting absconded milk, but praising my problem solving brilliance. Basking in the genius of me, I guzzled my masterpiece, caffeine slamming my senses with electric buzz, hurling my brain from the veil of hangover and delirium. A moment of surprise for a new development… Gummy chunks of chewy coffee rolled over my tongue before acrid taste became horrendously clear. Misfortune backed by a burst of amusement from within the fridge. Hilarious.