The Worst Kind of Mystery

I have four cups of coffee on my desk—today’s, yesterday’s, the day before’s, and one from the day before that—and now that today’s has gone cold, I don’t know which is which. I don’t even know why they’re all still there, and all half-full. Maybe 11:23 a.m. is roughly the time I give up, each day, trying to figure out where I left off—like maybe this happens to me all the time; maybe every day, Monday through Friday, I find the courage to throw away one mysterious cup of coffee but not enough to commit to one of the remaining three. I don’t have memories of that sort of thing, but it seems to me there’s been four cups of coffee on my desk for a very, very long time, even though I bring in a new one each day. They’re looking at me like an already-open door greets a sleepwalker in the morning; like evidence of a life secret even from myself.

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