Silently, sitting back, sipping coffee;

Silently, sitting back, sipping coffee;

I look down at the near-empty mug. A couple of coffee granules slipped through, and some of the frothy milky bits are left. 

There’s maybe a cubic centimeter of liquid left. 

My dad bought this mug for my birthday. He found it online, got it for cheap, and thought it looked pretty enough. It’s a fat shallow mug coated with rose-gold and dark brown paint, rimming the sides. The handle juts out on the right side, large enough to fit two fingers. 

It arrived three days after he ordered it. 

I sigh, slide farther down my seat, and prop my feet up on the desk. I hold the coffee right above my stomach. It’s uncomfortable. The mug’s warm. It’s that nice temperature after you’ve had a really good sleep and slept in a bit and just don’t want to get out of bed because you’re never been this nice of a temperature. I set the cup down on the desk, but not right in the middle. I place it a little to my left, just a couple of inches away from my now crossed ankles. My left ankle sits atop the right. I move my gaze straight ahead. My pelvis is tucked–I’m slumped, slouching, slipping farther down the seat. I stop. I pretend the ends of my hair are really heavy and tip my chin up. I allow this phantasmal gravity to pull my tip head farther farther over the back of my chair. Further farther. I’m staring at the ceiling, the top of my closet–I feel the front two legs of the chair leave the ground–the closet’s handle, the floor. I peer a little to the left and look out my open door onto the hallway. No one’s there. I flex my right foot and hyperextend my arms. I crack my wrists and yawn. I let my shoulders touch my tense neck and let my eyes roll back into my brain just for a second. I imagine watching my arms go limp and my left leg slowly relax and my right foot push the wall, sitting before my desk, in a high relevé position. It feels like everything’s squeezing. It’s like you’re just about to panic when everything's about to go wrong. Something in your body’s bound to break and when you’ve done and finished some strenuous exertion, expect to take your next breath but realize you’re not finished, you’ve got to keep going, and you can’t even take that gulp. I choke. I gasp. I pause. I stop. I say, “F you” to no one. I slowly stick my tongue out. Slowly, carefully, meticulously, savoring and considering every last drop of water on my very dehydrated tongue because I drank lots and lots of coffee. I smell the coffee in my mouth. I inhale and just before I start exhaling, I bring myself back up, chest leading, then head, then eyes. Tongue’s inside now; mouth’s closed. Things are kind of flickering and it almost feels like I might black out. I pretend like nothing’s happening. I sit there for a bit with all the things blinking and spotty. Still slumped, slouching, slipping. I glare at the wall in front of me. I move my tongue over my teeth, gums, wrapping it over in on itself. I sit there some more. I sit, waiting. 

Sometime later, I take my leg down, sit up, push my shoulders back until my shoulder blades almost touch each other–just for a second–and inhale. I exhale again. 

I look down at the mug my dad gave me for my birthday that’s sitting in front of my left shoulder. I take it, gulp the last bits down, and say “Gah!” like I’m some middle-aged or perhaps grandfatherly old man. 

I smile to myself. 

I peer down into the cup.

“You’ve been poisoned.”