Instruments of Redemption

"Mailbox looks full," Mrs. Moore said from her seat at the dining room table. She held a steaming mug of coffee while playing the crosswords on the morning newspaper.

"It's been awhile since I've grabbed the mail," Mr. Moore replied, cleaning out the French press. He hadn't thought it was dirty, but he wanted to make sure.

Mrs. Moore didn't bother to look up from her game as he went about preparing himself a cup of coffee. Water boiled on the stove next to a pan of sizzling bacon. When he finished cleaning the French press, he grabbed his tin of coffee out of the top cabinet. It felt empty in his hands. He opened the lid to find only a thin layer at the bottom. Through the black grains, he caught his own reflection. Disheveled came to mind. He sighed and closed the tin.

"Looks like we're out of coffee," he said.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I thought I'd made enough for the both of us."

"Don't worry about it darling. A cigarette will do. Want to join me on the front porch?" he asked.

She slowly looked up from her game and smiled at him. Her coffee stained teeth and crows feet reminded him of her vulnerability. The same vulnerability he'd noticed when they'd first met almost two decades ago.

They'd both been so shy back then. Neither realized what would become of that night. How it would develop into a love so deep that their souls felt intertwined. How they became one and could never seem to pull themselves apart. Even when they fought or spent time away from each other. Mr. Moore's heart would ache after a while, and he'd come running back to her like she was a drug he couldn't get enough of.

"Of course. You know you can always have my coffee, if you'd like? I can go without, they aren't expecting me at the school for another hour," she explained.

"Ah, right. Summer," Mr. Moore recalled.

"Don't tell me you've gotten the seasons all mixed now," Mrs. Moore said, chuckling. "Hey, five letters and grieving the dead."

"Course not darling, and lament? No... that's six... mourn?" he tried. She nodded her approval and scribbled down the answer.

Mr. Moore walked to the table she sat at and reached into the cigarette carton. His hand reached the very bottom and came up empty.

"I believe there's still a couple on your desk," Mrs. Moore said. She took a swig of her coffee before standing to face him. "I'll be on the front porch."

"Don't leave!" he exclaimed, reaching for her. But she was too quick and spun away, twirling her long black nightgown in the process. It reminded him of their wedding, when they'd danced together all night. How beautiful and happy she'd looked. Sometimes he wished they could go back to that night again.

"I'm not going anywhere. I'll just be in my chair," she said, snatching her newspaper off the table. Mr. Moore kept his hand raised, ready to grab onto her. But, somehow, he managed to lower it. He could wait a little while. So, he nodded and returned her smile.

"Right. Don't forget your coffee."

"Trust me, I won't," she laughed, tucking the paper under her arm and picking up her steaming mug. Then she turned and swiftly marched to the front door. Mr. Moore watched her the whole way.

When she'd closed the door behind her, he went to the office. Sure enough, sitting in a neat row on his desk were four cigarettes. He knew he'd been running low, but he didn't realize it'd been this bad. He sighed and put one of them behind his ear.

Then he returned to the kitchen, where he shut off the stove and grabbed a piece of overcooked bacon. It stung his fingers, and still sizzled in his mouth. But he ate it anyways. He was in a hurry to get to the porch. There, the love of his life would be waiting patiently.