She had not even bothered with toast this morning—again exhibiting a most unusual behavior.
Hazel never skipped breakfast.
She had the TV turned on and then off and then on and then finally off. The chatter of the Sunday press reports made no sense, and she was in no mood to sit down and attempt to concentrate.
The small sepia-tinted photo remained where she had placed it the previous evening, on the small desk that occupied a corner of the kitchen and from where Hazel managed all her finances and correspondence. A small laptop sat there as well. It was also dark.
She could not imagine trying to access Facebook that morning.
What would I post? “Oh, by the way, my mother was really married once. Sorry for the elaborate, decades-long façade.”
To complete a circuit in her apartment took a few dozen steps. The space was not large enough for a serious, soul-searching walk. That sort of activity had to be done outside.
Hazel didn’t really want to go outside, not in this thick fog and mist, but the walls of the apartment grew inward, making the space even smaller, and any cogent thought had become much more difficult.
She pulled on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, a mostly waterproof jacket, a wide-brimmed hat she had bought from L.L. Bean that promised to keep all rain off the back of one’s neck. She slipped on her waterproof duck boots, grabbed her phone, and hurried down the steps to the street below.
Where to?
She did not stop to think, just turned right and began to walk. That direction was more level and therefore more conducive to contemplation.
Harder to think when you’re panting up a hill .
The fog, thicker than she had anticipated, really did muffle most of the sounds that morning. Traffic was always light on Sunday, but what traffic there was appeared to be mostly silent.
That’s good…I guess .
She kept walking, thinking about that photograph, that snapshot, and all that it entailed—or rather not thinking about that snapshot, pretending that it did not change a thing in her life, and then thinking that her life had just exploded and there was no one left to place the pieces even in close proximity to one another.
She walked on, feeling the fog sort of creep into her sleeves and under her coat and drip off the brim of her hat. The air was not exactly cold that morning, but the dampness and the fog and her sense of temporal dislocation gave her a severe case of the chills.
Hazel looked up and tried to figure out exactly where she was.
A pool of light illuminated the sidewalk on the next block.
A pool of light meant one of two things: a restaurant or a coffee shop.
She was hoping for the latter.
And it was. As she neared it, she recognized the place, having been there once before—Stumptown Coffee.
Coffee, lots of varieties, all fair trade, of course; handmade, mostly organic pastries; a hip, urban vibe, with hipsters in plaid and ironic camouflage—just the sort of place Hazel felt most out of place in.
But she was cold now and wanted to sit.
And perhaps think.
Or not think.
She ordered a medium-sized coffee.
The barista waited for extras and further instructions about the coffee, and hearing none, she shrugged and poured a regular cup of coffee into a regular paper cup, no markings on the cup, no foam, no flavors—just like Hazel liked it.
She planned on adding the half-and-half and the artificial sweetener at the mixing station and avoiding the possibility of any arched eyebrows from an anti-milk or anti–artificial sweetener barista.
There was an empty chair facing out to the fog-clogged street.
Hazel sat down with an audible sigh.
Loud, poignant sighs were probably not unusual in a place frequented by disparate hipsters offended by most of what goes on in the world. Certainly no one that foggy Sunday morning turned around to notice, or paid attention to Hazel’s sigh.
She sipped at her creamed and sweetened coffee, feeling the warmth in her chest and stomach.
And then
Hazel never skipped breakfast.
She had the TV turned on and then off and then on and then finally off. The chatter of the Sunday press reports made no sense, and she was in no mood to sit down and attempt to concentrate.
The small sepia-tinted photo remained where she had placed it the previous evening, on the small desk that occupied a corner of the kitchen and from where Hazel managed all her finances and correspondence. A small laptop sat there as well. It was also dark.
She could not imagine trying to access Facebook that morning.
What would I post? “Oh, by the way, my mother was really married once. Sorry for the elaborate, decades-long façade.”
To complete a circuit in her apartment took a few dozen steps. The space was not large enough for a serious, soul-searching walk. That sort of activity had to be done outside.
Hazel didn’t really want to go outside, not in this thick fog and mist, but the walls of the apartment grew inward, making the space even smaller, and any cogent thought had become much more difficult.
She pulled on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, a mostly waterproof jacket, a wide-brimmed hat she had bought from L.L. Bean that promised to keep all rain off the back of one’s neck. She slipped on her waterproof duck boots, grabbed her phone, and hurried down the steps to the street below.
Where to?
She did not stop to think, just turned right and began to walk. That direction was more level and therefore more conducive to contemplation.
Harder to think when you’re panting up a hill .
The fog, thicker than she had anticipated, really did muffle most of the sounds that morning. Traffic was always light on Sunday, but what traffic there was appeared to be mostly silent.
That’s good…I guess .
She kept walking, thinking about that photograph, that snapshot, and all that it entailed—or rather not thinking about that snapshot, pretending that it did not change a thing in her life, and then thinking that her life had just exploded and there was no one left to place the pieces even in close proximity to one another.
She walked on, feeling the fog sort of creep into her sleeves and under her coat and drip off the brim of her hat. The air was not exactly cold that morning, but the dampness and the fog and her sense of temporal dislocation gave her a severe case of the chills.
Hazel looked up and tried to figure out exactly where she was.
A pool of light illuminated the sidewalk on the next block.
A pool of light meant one of two things: a restaurant or a coffee shop.
She was hoping for the latter.
And it was. As she neared it, she recognized the place, having been there once before—Stumptown Coffee.
Coffee, lots of varieties, all fair trade, of course; handmade, mostly organic pastries; a hip, urban vibe, with hipsters in plaid and ironic camouflage—just the sort of place Hazel felt most out of place in.
But she was cold now and wanted to sit.
And perhaps think.
Or not think.
She ordered a medium-sized coffee.
The barista waited for extras and further instructions about the coffee, and hearing none, she shrugged and poured a regular cup of coffee into a regular paper cup, no markings on the cup, no foam, no flavors—just like Hazel liked it.
She planned on adding the half-and-half and the artificial sweetener at the mixing station and avoiding the possibility of any arched eyebrows from an anti-milk or anti–artificial sweetener barista.
There was an empty chair facing out to the fog-clogged street.
Hazel sat down with an audible sigh.
Loud, poignant sighs were probably not unusual in a place frequented by disparate hipsters offended by most of what goes on in the world. Certainly no one that foggy Sunday morning turned around to notice, or paid attention to Hazel’s sigh.
She sipped at her creamed and sweetened coffee, feeling the warmth in her chest and stomach.
And then
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