The sacred ritual of coffee and a cigarette first thing in the morning.
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April 10, 2022
No one plans to wake up hours before their alarm on a Sunday morning. Yet, sleep has not come easily to Dorian in quite some time, and even with the occasional late nights his job demands of him, he's always been an early riser.
He lies in bed and blinks the high ceiling into focus. It’s not dark, not truly—the lights and life of a city every bit as sleepless as himself shine through tall, half-curtained windows. He props himself up and takes a moment to enjoy the view—an odd sentiment, once he is aware of it. Mawkish appreciation of the skyline and signs of activity, he thinks, is for tourists and transplants … Most of the time, anyway. But from a distance and before dawn, Manhattan is almost lovely—her spires and skyscrapers akin to cathedrals built to capital and industry.
When he gives in and checks his phone, the time ticks over to exactly 5:00am. No use going back to sleep, less chance he’d be able to if he tried—might as well commit to an early start. He stretches his arms above his head, wondering what dream had stirred him, though the details have already smudged and run off the canvas of his mind like drenched charcoal.
Dorian gets up and spends a few minutes in the bathroom, brushing his teeth as if it will make up for all the habits that threaten to stain them. Not that you could tell from that alone, as he takes care to keep them chemically whitened for appearances.
The nipping air prompts him to quickly pull a black long sleeve over his head—the other half of the matching half to the cotton pajama pants he’d fallen asleep in. For good measure, he grabs a long coat from his closet, but doesn’t put it on yet, just brings it with him to the kitchen.
His condo is still mostly empty space, even after two years. It's not quite cold, though it has certainly felt that way at times, especially when he’s alone. On most days, it still feels too big for him, but at least the layout lends itself well to hosting and entertaining.
First things first, he lays his jacket over the back of a chair and plods quietly over to the espresso machine. He has the option of drip or French-pressed coffee as well, which he considers, but slow mornings call for deliberately unhurried rituals. A simple glass is already waiting for him on the counter, and he pays no mind to the fact that he doesn’t remember leaving out any dishes.
He adds filtered water to the machine before he heats it, the light of the button glowing with a soft blue brilliance. It’s not the most expensive appliance, but he certainly paid for the luxury of its durability; he remembers the mental gymnastics it had required to make that frivolous purchase, even once he’d triple-checked that he could afford a hundred such machines without his wallet feeling the dent.
While he waits, he unclasps an airtight container of finely-ground Arabica and estimates twenty grams by eye, hardly caring if it comes out a bit on the stronger side. He measures out the grounds by filling the stainless steel portafilter, then disperses them evenly with the needles of a Weiss-Distribution tool. By the time he’s tamped the puck to firmness, the machine reads as ready, and he locks the mechanism in.
A double shot takes anywhere between twenty-five and thirty seconds to pull. It’s time enough to busy himself with something else, but this morning, Dorian simply stands and watches the dark roast extract from the grounds, gathering in a rich gradient that stacks from light to dark in the clear cup, finishing off with a perfect golden crema. The process smells divine.
Dorian shrugs on his coat—phone in one pocket, cigarettes and lighter in the other. He fastens one button in the front and takes the fresh espresso out onto the balcony, careful not to spill a drop as he steps through the sliding door, setting it on a small metal table before he sits down.
Although his place is endowed with an auspicious smokers’ section, part of him was disappointed to find fire escapes omitted from the architecture of most modern Manhattan buildings, as it carried a distinct element of nostalgia for him. The act invoked memories of sitting in Brooklyn with his older sister—taking the occasional hit off the cigarettes her modelling agent had bought her to suppress her appetite, trying to mask the smell from their mother as if she didn't know what her kids were up to.
Smoking alone doesn't have the same appeal as sharing the experience with a loved one, but that doesn't keep him from enjoying it.
New York is still cold in April, especially at this hour, but he doesn’t bother with gloves. His fingers work well enough to unclasp an engraved metal cigarette case, lined with two neat rows of Marlboro Red 100’s. After all these years, he still shares his sister's preferred brand.
The vintage, windproof trench lighter was a gift from his boss and friend, Iris Darke. He’s glad they’ve made a tradition of exchanging such souvenirs with each other, as he’d be at a loss as to what to get her for her birthdays and holidays otherwise.
Nevermind the gruesome details of how that kindly custom began.
By and large, Dorian tries not to think about God—more than anything, because he hopes God does not think about him. But there he is, in that flicker of light as the spark catches with a click.
He usually averts his eyes from the divine, but he watches as the flame licks the end of a cigarette. His thumb shifts off the mechanism, and the only burning comes from the soft crackling of paper and tobacco. This morning, it seems brighter than usual.
His lips part from the filtered end, letting the smoke settle warmly in his lungs for a moment before it's freed in an exhale. The pressure in his chest eases.
Dorian props his feet up on the railing and watches the flourishing traffic, the birds zipping busily between buildings. There is some comfort in the assumption that the rest of those awake in the Financial District will be running off their own fix of caffeine and nicotine, whatever flavors they find it in.
He takes another drag before his free hand lifts his cup to his lips, savoring the shot's velvet acidity. Despite the typical aversion of children to bitter flavor profiles, he cannot recall a time in his adolescence where he ever disliked black coffee. Without doubt, the espresso is of higher quality than the drip pots his mother always used to brew before sunrise, and yet, he would find the same comfort in every variation of the unsweetened warmth.
Are those not the qualities people search for when they turn to god? What does a paternal power on high have to promise if not relief, comfort, and warmth?
His eyes flicker to the empty metal chair beside him. If there were a god, Dorian thinks, then he’d need to be the kind of friend who would sit and enjoy coffee and a cigarette on a cool morning with him.
But alas, the chair is empty, and Dorian inhales again.
The only thing missing to complete his usual routine is the newspaper, but that won’t be delivered for at least another hour. Reading material keeps the melancholy at bay, though it still often creeps in around the edges, tinging this morning ritual, desecrating its sanctity.
He supposes that’s to be expected, for he knows—just as god presumably does—what he has done to get here, enjoying the quiet luxury of an unhurried morning. Has he earned this? Does he deserve it? Does the answer matter?
He gazes upon the city below him, knowing it to be flooded by a sea of strangers less fortunate than himself. Not just those in poverty, but people caught up in the rat-race, stuck spinning plates and jumping through hoops for the promise of capital and the security it provides.
In two hours or so, when Dorian drives to the Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd. office on Wall Street, he’ll do so with the certainty that no guilty handwringing on his part would do a damn bit to change their situation. That sentiment does not make the guilt go away—nor does another sip of coffee.
Wait, no—it’s Sunday, he remembers. You don’t have to go into work. Of course, nobody at Marshall, Carter and Dark cares about typical schedules or exact hours—no, that is for underpaid workers who trade time for cash. Still, there’s no reason to go into the office.
Well, you could go to mass, he thinks, the smoke leaving his lungs in a staggered exhale that’s not quite laughter. Somehow, Dorian is actually not the worst Catholic in the company, but he’s by no means a good one. Not by a long shot. Not for a long time.
The chilled wind carries the reinvigorated scent of coffee and cigarettes toward him—not just up from his hands, but drifting from his left. That fact pulls his attention as much as the tell-tale click of a dead lighter.
Dorian turns his head and finds that there is still no one sitting in the chair beside him—and yet, it is not empty anymore.
He blinks once, twice, then rubs his eyes with his free hand. It’s still there…or there enough, anyway. There is nothing to its form, save smoke and steam.
It’s the sort of mundane magic that might have rattled him out of his skin a few years ago, but whatever this is doesn’t seem hostile (and really, what could break past his employers’ wards to do him harm in his own home?).
He assesses the specter for a long moment, taking a thoughtful drag that ends when he reaches the filter.
“Good morning,” he greets, his voice just slightly raw as he drops the dog-end into a glass ashtray.
His transient friend’s only reply is to nudge the nearly-empty cup. Every god demands sacrifice. Unfortunately, Dorian is a selfish devotee, and he smiles before knocking back the rest of the espresso. He licks his lips, relishing the aftertaste. His formless companion is palpably dispirited, seeming to fleet out of focus before Dorian promises in a murmur—
“I’ll make another." He retrieves his cigarette case from his pocket once more. “You can have one of these, though.” Usually, he limits himself to one in the mornings, but what smoker is not easily swayed by the allure of sociability?
There is another soft click accompanied by a tiny, brilliant wink that does not linger long enough to properly light the two fresh Marlboros. Dorian’s stare goes from expectant to judgmental as the light flickers and fails once more.
“I’ve got it,” he says around the cigarette between his teeth. He brings up his own lighter and thumbs the spark wheel, his cheeks hollowed. His friend’s wispy form twinkles and curls in gratitude.
The smell of fresh espresso brings his attention back to the cup on the table. There it sits, refilled to the lip, topped with a smooth, perforated foam the color of 24 karat gold.
Dorian smiles warmly, and as he is not entirely discourteous, he motions for his companion to have the first sip. The top portion disappears in a trickle, leaving Dorian with the better part of the shot’s black body and heart.
He takes another drag while he waits, then raises the cup. It’s the perfect temperature to swallow in one go, but he resists the urge, instead savoring the emulsification and richness in measured sips. He cannot profile the flavor; he knows only that it is perfectly bittersweet, and that it makes him think he ought to call his mother and sisters later. Maybe he'll ask if they want to meet for coffee.
When he goes to set the cup back down, he finds the chair empty again. The half-smoked dart in his ashtray is cold, like it’s been put out for an age.
And his lighter’s gone.
Dorian scoffs quietly and stubs out his own cigarette, leaving the unsmoked half there beside god’s.
Bastard.
