I was making coffee in the kitchen when I realised the sky was still dark. It was 7:05 a.m. and, peering out through the window, everything was black. A few streetlights illuminated the pavement, casting their orange hue upon the ground, but above I could see nothing except the murky outline of clouds.
Shouldn't it be light by now? I wondered as the kettle finished boiling. This was a few weeks ago, before certain recent events. I have never needed to rely on an alarm, but that morning, for whatever reason, I had slept in an almost extra hour.
Usually, I get up a little before six, enjoying a period of solitary twilight. I extract myself from bed so as not to wake my wife and tiptoe to the kitchen to set about boiling the kettle. 6 a.m. is, I have come to appreciate, the perfect time for making coffee; there is a strange satisfaction in brewing something of such importance whilst some unknowable and large proportion of a city still sleeps. The black liquid, once it arrives within, imparts its secrets to those attuned to its power. As I wait with anticipation by the kettle, I stretch, imagining the long vagus nerve in my neck emerging from my ear like an ancient serpent, its frayed tongue reaching for the ceiling as if seeking answers in the uneven surface of the paint. Only once it is satisfied with its exploration do I relax. Then, with my coffee in hand, I move to my desk and take long, slow sips as I read several pages of whatever novel I happen to be reading and write a brief note in my diary. This is how each of my days begins.
I am no man of ritual, but for coffee I always use the same mug. It has a witty slogan written along the side, a phrase about books that makes me smile whenever I look at it. For my first intake of caffeine, I choose instant. An instant coffee is by no means a proper way to enjoy coffee, but through years of experience I have trained my body to accept an initial, inferior hit; only hours later do I follow it up with a proper espresso. There is a certain act of denial in this process that I relish, the instant coffee serving as a kind of buffer, letting my brain begin to function whilst equilibrating to the day. To put it another way, the precise timing of caffeine in a morning ritual is critical. Too early and the body is confused. Too late and the mind is like mud; no amount of coffee can resurrect this state.
That morning, everything felt disrupted. Pouring the steaming water into my mug, I noticed a spider had made its web across the outer window frame. It was motionless, patiently waiting for its prey. Leaving it to its necessary act, I took my coffee with me to the dining room and drew back the curtains. Once again my eyes looked to the sky. I checked my watch: 7:08 a.m., according to the dial. Perhaps dawn was mere moments away. Still, as I peered at the faint outline of clouds, I saw no hint of light slanting from across the horizon. The hum of traffic from the nearby road, so usual for this hour, was also absent. Confused, I remained in place, ignoring the paperback and diary on my desk. Below, I could see branches of several trees stirring in a light wind.
I was aware that my coffee was now empty. All that was left was a thin ring of brown liquid at the bottom. I had no recollection of drinking and felt no hint of its stimulant. Perhaps I had used decaf by mistake. Anything was possible when waking up late, I figured. Returning to the kitchen and boiling the kettle once more, I heaped two teaspoons—caffeinated, I made sure—into my mug. The spider, still flyless, maintained its stoic watch, perhaps confused by my return. I hoped a fly would come its way soon, but I had no way of knowing for sure. With my mug refilled, I felt a sudden and uncontrollable compulsion to go outside, like I was stood in the shallow water of a receding tide. I wrote my wife a short note and stuck it to the bedroom door. (We do this often, leaving little notes for each other should one of us not be around when the other expects.) Although she is a deep sleeper and I would be back within a few minutes, I hated the idea of her waking up and not knowing where I was. With coffee in hand, I put on some shoes and made my silent exit, heading down the steps of our apartment and out onto the street.
The air outside was chill and crisp and my skin felt the same wind as the trees. I turned left onto the pavement, passing under a streetlamp to follow the curve of the path toward the main road. The houses that dotted the way were all dark, their shapes like forgotten monuments. Not a single window emitted any kind of light. I continued walking, aware of the intense quiet. No birds. No cars. The only sound was my footsteps. By now my watch said it was 7:31 a.m. Even without precise meteorological knowledge, I knew that the sun should, by this hour, be above the horizon. The sky, however, seemed not to acknowledge this fact. It was as dark as though it were 2 a.m. It didn’t make sense, and yet … I felt oddly calm. Remembering the cup in my hand, I stopped and took a long sip. The liquid was hot—the sensation of just being poured—and I felt the near instantaneous rush. For some time I stood there, enjoying the warmth of each mouthful and the burgeoning awareness only caffeine can bring, letting my mind be at peace in the silence. It may sound strange to say, but it was one of the best cups of coffee I have ever experienced.
As I was taking the final sip, a movement caught my eye. On the side of the road, lying on a patch of grass, was a man. He was on his back, a thin sheet pulled up to his chin and with his bare feet poking out from the bottom. He was flexing his toes, moving them with what looked like great satisfaction; the same movement must have been what caught my eye. It was such a strange sight that, even upon approaching to see if he was OK, at first I didn’t notice the oddity of his features.
“Are you OK?” I said, for some reason keeping my voice low, as though it really were the middle of the night. He seemed to be smiling, at what I could not tell.
“Yes,” he said. His eyes closed and then reopened. He was staring at something in the sky. As I stood over him, I was hit by a sudden realisation.
I have often wondered on accounts of people seeing their doppelgänger. As a child I was fascinated by stories of the strange. Although explainable by mere chance and the vast pool of possible genetics, for many years I wished to see someone with my own likeness. This was not some kind of vanity but instead a compulsion to sense a moment edging into the unreal. How would it feel to see yourself? What would the person be like? Even in my teenage years, I continued to wonder on this.
Looking down at the man, I realised I had not had this thought for a long time and I found myself inspecting his features at length. Granted, the casual and indifferent inspection of my own self has come through the inversion of mirror, so I will admit to the unreliability of my judgement, but there was no doubt in my mind: this man was, in appearance, exactly me. It was uncanny. My heartrate began to increase and sweat prickled at the nape of my neck. I felt momentarily dizzy. So this is what it feels like, I acknowledged, satisfied at the experience.
The man turned to me, his head lolling to one side.
“Hello,” he said. His eyes were glazed and his voice carried a slight slur. “I wondered where I would go.”
“Where you would go?” I offered back, the only words I would speak.
“Yes,” he said. “It makes sense now, don’t you think?” He smiled again, then returned to inspecting the sky. “It’s quite beautiful, if you follow yourself.”
Makes sense? I had no grasp of how it made sense. Even now I grapple with whether any of it makes sense, or whether it happened at all. When I awoke, I was sat at my desk with my mug in my hand, the contents drained of any liquid. My diary was open, the pen uncapped and resting on a blank page. The paperback’s bookmark indicated no pages had been read.
“Morning,” I heard my wife call out. “Did I hear you go out?”
I glanced to the window. Through patchy clouds I could see the sky, clear and blue and with the fading hues of dawn. The sound of a passing car made itself known to my ears.
“I’m not sure,” I heard myself mumble, looking to my feet. My shoes were on and the soles bore traces of soil.
I closed the diary, frowning. It and the book could wait. Standing, I followed myself into the kitchen, kissed my wife good morning, and felt a sudden peace at accepting whatever the day ahead would bring.
Hello. A short footnote for if you make it this far. Thank you for reading. I realise my posting is a little out of sync, but I am to get back to the usual rhythm of once a week. I owe it to
for sprinkling water on this seed in the comments to my last post, and I owe it to my body—healing, thankfully—for giving me the time and space to write. It has been pure joy.
Oh how wonderfully surreal, my favorite kind of story… nothing definitive, and lots of details that will inevitably creep into my own dream state. A world of opposites—darkness looking for light, sleep looking for alertness, seeking self looking for rested, contented self.
Your brain is marvelously colored and complex. So fun to swim in it every time I read something you write. And yay for the repose of post-op that allowed you to indulge in it!
And this was pretty awesome too:
“As I wait with anticipation by the kettle, I stretch, imagining the long vagus nerve in my neck emerging from my ear like an ancient serpent, its frayed tongue reaching for the ceiling as if seeking answers in the uneven surface of the paint. Only once it is satisfied with its exploration do I relax.”
This is so beautiful, Nathan! The magic that emerges from the normal. The paradox of existence: we’re here, yet we’re somewhere else. I loved how you delicately weave into this idea of overlapping universes. There’s a border between different dimensions, where you’re left hanging peeking at both sides at once. This is my interpretation of this idea, of course. But I can see it in your words too. “It’s quite beautiful, to follow yourself” — this line will stay with me for a long time. Thank you for writing this. And thank you for mentioning me! I’m honored to have been some sort of a “prompter” for this.