tired - kimb chapelle
honorable mention

I dropped my coffee mug.

That's when I noticed my coffee didn't have any milk in it...I never drink it black.

I grabbed the stiff, dry towel beside the dishes in the dish rack to clean up the mess. I got out the dustpan from the closet in the kitchen and sank to the cold, sticky linoleum of my kitchen floor, crying. I don't remember exactly what it was that made me start crying again -- it was just a coffee mug, and not even my favorite one. Maybe it was because I didn't sleep well last night; maybe it was because, at that moment when I was sure nothing could be worse, I lost something else. I was angry. I felt mindless and hopeless and defenseless. I felt lost.

I picked up the pieces of porcelain from the puddle of black coffee and placed them on the dustpan. I tried to be careful, but cut myself anyway. I sucked at the blood dripping from my fingertips until I was sure the bleeding had stopped, then carried the dustpan to the wastebasket by the sink, cursing and dumping the coffee cup remains on top of a plastic wrapper for frozen sweet corn. I threw the dustpan in, too, I think.

I turned to face the wall. It was the same wall I've been looking at for almost three years -- it hadn't changed, it hadn't moved -- but for the first time since we moved into this apartment, I noticed it was ugly. Really ugly. And it wasn't white anymore. It wasn't even off-white. No, it was dirty and ugly and dingy, and instantly I hated it. I remembered the day we moved in and all our plans to make this place our home. I remembered he promised, as he promised so much else, to paint the kitchen for me. He never got around to it. He never got around to anything. I took the damp, coffee-sopped rag and threw it across the room at the wall. It stuck and sluggishly began to creep toward the floor.

Just last night (though right now it felt like years ago) I asked him to go get some milk for the morning. I was tired, and didn't feel like leaving the apartment. We were eating dinner -- or rather, I was. He was poking around at the yellow niblets of corn on his plate.

He didn't answer me. He didn't even look up.

I thought he didn't hear me so I asked again. He was silent awhile. Then quietly almost, he asked me what I thought was the purpose of life. I told him I didn't know -- I didn't then and still don't -- and that was all I said, even though I really wanted to ask him what that had to do with milk and tomorrow's breakfast.

Minutes went by and some of his corn niblets disappeared. As I kept looking at him, I noticed he seemed to have aged somewhat within the past few months. His skin had turned red and thick, almost peppered-looking. His hair was a little more coarse and, in spots, going gray. Finally, he looked up and declared:

"I'm dreading tomorrow."

Was this about breakfast? I was puzzled. "What's tomorrow?" I asked.

"It's going to be just like today."

"What's wrong with today?"

His head fell again. "Don't you want to do something meaningful with your life? Don't you want to die knowing that you accomplished something? Don't you want to do anything?"

He was telling me I was wasting my life. I was indignant.

"I have a job, you know!"

He shook his head vigorously -- "Don't you want to be somebody? Don't you want your life...your life to matter?"

I thought this was going to be the beginning of some speech or something. I just sat there, irritated. This sort of thing seemed to happen to him every once in a while. He would suddenly feel motivated and passionate, that he was going to go out and change the world, change himself, change his life. Generally, his new life would last a few days, he'd come back to his senses and return to being the same as he always was. He never changed.

I didn't want to upset him any further. So I just sat there, eating, hoping he'd go out soon and get the milk, so I could do the dishes in peace and not have him pester me all night.

"I'm tired of living like this."

I threw down my fork, and stood up. "Like what? Like with me?"

"No. Living in mediocrity. Living a life that goes unnoticed by the world."

"My life doesn't go unnoticed by me," I refuted. I could feel my chest tightening.

He wanted to fight back but didn't. He rose to his feet, slowly folding up his napkin and placing it on his nearly untouched plate.

"Tomorrow's got to be different. Something's got to change before it's too late."

I stood up. "No, nothing's going to change. You know it, and I know it. You'll go to work like you always do. I'll go to work like I always do. Then we'll come home and eat dinner, just like we always do, and then we'll go to bed and do it all over again!" I walked over, slammed the dishes into the sink and began running the water.

He wasn't sure what to say. He paced the kitchen impatiently, staring at his clenched fists as he walked back and forth.

"I have dreams," he went on, "and I want to make them come true."

He sounded like one of those motivational speakers. It gave me a headache.

"Viv." He was winding up his final plea. "Don't you have dreams?"

"Well, sure I do." I paused a moment to think. "Someday I want us to get married and have a baby. And I want to move out of this apartment and get a real home. And I want to save a little money and retire. But in the meantime, I'd like my milk in the morning, so I can drink my coffee and go to work!"

He nodded as I turned around to finish the dishes.

He picked up his keys from the coffee table in the living room and left. He didn't even turn around.