Incomplete

The coffee is bitter. Not undrinkable—just bitter. He notices it the way you notice a loose thread on your sleeve: worth observing, not worth much else.

"Our protagonist," the narrator cuts in, already tired, "is seated on a bench. It's 4 PM on a Tuesday. He was supposed to be at work."

He was supposed to be at work. The thought drifts through his mind like grocery list items. Milk. Bread. Employment.

"He was fired yesterday," the narrator clarifies, voice sharpening. "Fired. Let go after five years. The manager couldn't even look at him while doing it."

That had been uncomfortable. For the manager, mostly. He'd watched the man's hands shake while sliding the termination letter across the desk, had felt something like sympathy. It must be hard, firing people. He'd nodded, said he understood, and meant it.

When did that happen? he thinks, sipping bitter coffee. When did I stop needing things to be different?

"He has sixty thousand shillings in his bank account," the narrator continues, like a salesman listing features. "Rent is due in eleven days. His mother hasn't returned his calls in three weeks—not since he told her about Jennifer. Jennifer was girlfriend number three. Or four, depending on whether you count Sarah, and frankly, even he isn't sure."

Sarah. He thinks about her sometimes. She'd said something similar to what Jennifer said. What they all said, really. Variations on a theme.

The sun is warm. He should probably leave—the park closes in 5 minutes—but the warmth feels good. Not good like happiness, just... present. Like the bitterness of the coffee.

"His father had a stroke last month," the narrator adds, almost conversationally now. "Mild, the doctors said. Mild. But the old man can't remember his son's name half the time, keeps calling him 'David.' Our protagonist's name is Michael. Has been for twenty-eight years."

David was his brother. Past tense.

It was after David, he thinks suddenly. After the funeral. No—after everyone stopped calling about the funeral.

"Are you listening?" The narrator's voice rises. "FIRED. BROKE. FATHER DOESN'T RECOGNIZE HIM. And he's sitting here contemplating COFFEE TEMPERATURE like some kind of—"

The phone buzzes. Jennifer. Again.

He looks at it. Three missed calls this morning. Seventeen texts since last night. He should answer. He will answer. The phone stops buzzing.

I'm not trying to do this, he thinks, and realizes it's true. I don't wake up and decide to be... whatever this is. It just happens. Happened. Is happening?

"Fine," the narrator snaps. "FINE. Let's try this. Let's really try."

The apartment looks the same. He'd half-expected Jennifer to have packed already, but her shoes are still by the door—the blue ones she wore to her sister's wedding, the sneakers with the torn lace she keeps meaning to replace.

She's sitting on the couch. Not crying yet. That comes later.

"You're here," she says.

"I'm here."

"I called you seventeen times."

"I know. I'm sorry." And he is. Not sorry in the desperate, clawing way—just sorry the way you're sorry for rain canceling outdoor plans. Unfortunate. Natural.

"Michael." Her voice cracks. "We need to talk."

"Okay."

"Stop. Stop doing that. Stop being so—" She stands up, and he can see her hands trembling. "Your father had a stroke. You lost your job. And you're just... what? Fine? You're just fine?"

He thinks about this. "No. Not fine. It hurts."

"It HURTS?" She laughs, sharp and wrong. "It hurts. Jesus Christ, Michael. Do you hear yourself?"

"I feel it," he says, trying to explain something he doesn't understand himself. "I feel all of it. The job, my dad, David still being—" He stops. "I just don't think it should be different than it is."

"That's insane. That's an insane thing to say."

"Maybe."

"STOP." She's crying now, really crying, and he feels it—genuinely feels it—like a weight in his chest. "Stop being calm. Stop being understanding. I'm leaving you. Do you get that? I'm leaving you."

"I know."

"Then REACT. Get angry. Beg me to stay. Break something. Be a fucking HUMAN BEING for once."

He looks at her. Really looks. She's terrified, he realizes. Not of him leaving, but of him staying exactly like this. Of him accepting her departure the way he accepted everything else—as just another thing that happened.

"I don't want you to go," he says quietly. "I hope you don't. But if you do—"

"If I do, WHAT?" She's shouting now. "If I do, that's just natural? That's just life? What is WRONG with you?"

I don't know, he thinks. I ended up here somehow. When did I end up here?

"I love you," he says, and means it. "I really do."

"No." She's backing toward the bedroom, toward the door, toward anywhere that isn't here. "No, you don't. You can't. People who love people don't— they don't just—"

"Jennifer—"

"There's something broken in you, Michael. Something missing. And I can't—" Her voice catches. "I can't watch you not care anymore."

"I do care."

"Then show me. Please. Just once, show me."

He feels the weight in his chest grow heavier. The loss of her, the loss of everything, all of it pressing down. He feels it completely.

And stands there, feeling it.

She stares at him. Seconds pass. Maybe a minute. He watches something die in her eyes.

"Goodbye, Michael."

The door closes quietly. Not slammed—that would at least be something. Just... closed.

He sits down on the couch. Her coffee mug is still on the table, half-full, probably cold by now. The apartment is very quiet.

I hope she's okay, he thinks. I hope—

"No," the narrator interrupts, and for the first time, sounds almost tired. "No, you know what? I can't. I can't DO this. Seven years I've been narrating this man's life. SEVEN YEARS. And not ONCE, not ONE SINGLE TIME has he—"

The coffee mug sits on the table.

"His girlfriend just LEFT. His FATHER has brain damage. He's UNEMPLOYED. And he's just going to sit there and—"

The mug is blue. Ceramic. She bought it at that flea market in—

"I QUIT. You hear me? I'm done. Let someone else narrate Mr. Enlightened here. Let someone else watch him accept his way into complete isola—"

The sun is setting. He should probably

END