Complimentary Coffee
The plane hits turbulence right as I begin to pour creamer into my coffee. I quickly put both hands around the cup and freeze in place. If the plane goes down, I don’t want the additional pain of hot coffee in my lap before the fire consumes me. I remember my phone is in the seat pocket in front of me. I should let go of the cup so I can grab my phone and send one last message to my family if the rumbling gets worse. But I remain as frozen as the coffee my mom pours into an ice cube tray at the start of every week. Instead, I watch as the shaking mixes the creamer for me, the white streaks bending in the cup like the clouds around us. When the turbulence finally ends, I let go of the cup and pour in two sugars. There’s only about an hour left in this flight, and then I’ll be home.
What do they call me?
After Mahogany J. Browne
My name is “Alexander Kirk Carrigan.” Or maybe it’s actually “A seed too heavy for a talon to carry.” Or maybe it’s actually “A firefly’s light that couldn’t draw it a mate.” Or maybe it’s actually “A melody that lyrics can’t stick to.” Or maybe it’s actually “A joke that elicited a cough and not a laugh.” Or maybe it’s actually “A cardinal seconds from hitting a window.” Or maybe it’s actually “A bell whose ring can only be heard by ghosts.” Or maybe it’s “John Ralph (J.R.) Alexander, investigative journalist.” Or maybe it’s “Alexandra Kirkman, erotic novelist.” Or maybe it’s “Audrey Rugburn, drag superstar.” Or maybe it’s “Laurels, online forum member.” Or maybe it’s actually “Son,” but never “Father.” Or maybe it’s actually “Sir,” but never “Darling.” Or maybe it’s actually “Dude,” but never “Friend.” Or maybe it’s actually “Andrew,” but never “Alex.” It's not “doctor,” nor “professor,” nor “president,” nor “chief,” nor “director,” nor “reverend,” nor “holy father,” nor “brother,” nor “cousin,” nor “uncle,” nor “grandfather.” It's certainly not “Al.” But it is mine, whatever it is.