[The fluorescent tube hummed, buzzed as if it was late on rent.]
The apartment was a remnant, cast-off corner of an old paper mill floor, ten paces to the windows still stamped with mill dust. The steel ceiling loomed fifteen, perhaps twenty feet overhead, bolted tight as if to contain the resonance of its past glory days. Sunlight crawled upon the half-ashen brick walls, before surrendering halfway, leaving the upper reaches permanently adrift in dusk.
One felt that emptiness in the shoulders, a hunch beneath the weight of a metaphysical burden pressing silently downward from the ceiling. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of old pulp and the sharp chill of dormant spaces. A galley kitchenette clung to the south wall: single hot‑plate, half‑sized fridge, enamel sink no wider than B’s shoulders. Opposite, the futon crouched beneath drifts of half‑folded laundry. Between them, a blond‑wood desk sagged under twin monitors, and seven—no eight—espresso cups ringed an aging MacBook whose keyboard glowed only on the right; the A and W keys stood bare, letters long since thumbed to ghosts. Besides, The cast‑iron radiator squatted it like a rust‑scarred bulldog, knocking Morse into the planks.
one, two, three,…six, six, seven, eight, …, ten, … ,seventeen. B counted between the flickers.
Page sixty-three again. Vereinbarung. The cursor has stopped moving twenty minutes ago.
Page sixty-seven.
Ausführungsbestimmungen became “executive provisions”. Then “executive decisions”, then just “decisions”. B deleted the line and move on.
It was Tuesday, which meant he should have been at the coffee shop four hours ago. Or is it Thursday?
The radiator’s midnight clang unfurled through the half-finished living room, though morning light had bled through the old factory windows. Morning light, Afternoon, maybe.
He reached for the chipped Carrara‑white mug. The espresso had grown a skin. His chapped lips, split at the seam, parted just enough to rupture the coagulated surface, tasting yesterday.
[The tremor started in his jaw, followed by those shaky hands. He was jonesing1 for half a bar2.]
The Caucasian couple across the hall had drawn their curtains halfway—in their 30s, no kids, a pair of Dalmatians. The woman was pressed against the wall beside the industrial windows, her blouse half-done. Afternoon light caught the curve of the exposed skin, her head tilted back against the bricks. Every other afternoon was often their time.
Sometimes, B wondered if they were doing it on purpose. He looked away, then back. The man’s hands braced the wall on either side of her, his face buried in her neck. The woman’s face turned towards the window, mouthing a silent aperture suspended within the glass pane. The dimmed light caught the sweat on her collarbone, turned it into gold.
B touched his tongue to the roof of his mouth. The chalky residue was now gone. He'd need another half soon.
His phone buzzed. Sixteen missed calls, three from K at Cima’s, ten from the coffee shop, the rest from an unknown “(415)”. He deleted the voicemail without listening
is this the person who I think it is?
The German blurred again. “Vereinbarung”. Agreement. Arrangement. Understanding. In English, everything had too many meanings. B typed “contract”.
Somebody knocked. B didn’t answer. People has been knocking all week — HOA, Gas inspection, vent maintenance, the property manager about plants dying on the escape hatch. Or is it last week?
The Turkish cezve sat cold on the hot plate nearby. Was it heating? He watched the ground that might have been bubbling. The foam rose and fell—or maybe it was his breathing. S had bought it at the Berkeley flea market, “For our mornings,” she’d said.
Which morning? The one that stretched back in time, or forward til tomorrow, that might never come?
The laptop showed 3:47 PM Tuesday. His watch: 8:15. The cezve wasn’t heating. He touched it—cold copper against his palm. When had he made coffee? The grounds in the pot were dry, still.
The knock came again. Harder.
“B? It’s T. From the shop.”
He stood and his knees buckled. When had he last stood? The translation folder counted forty-seven pages complete. The floor tilted, righted itself. He counted the coffee bags on the counter—seventeen, half were torn, the other spilled on top of the counter. He couldn’t remember emptying them.
“I know you’re in there man. I can smell the coffee.”
But the cezve was cold. B smelled his hands, reeked of coffee stains. The knock stopped.
“I’m sick”, he rasped.
“Yeah, okay. Just—M wants to know if you’re coming back. Ever.”
B touched his pockets. Three bars. No—one. The pharmacy on King closed at six. He watched his hand shake, steadied it against the wall.
“Tell him Thursday.”
“It is Thursday.”
Time warped. Ausführungsbestimmungen had been “executive provisions,” then “decisions,” then nothing.
“NEXT THURSDAY!” he shouted at the wood grain.
Footsteps retreated down the warped hallway.
“Okay, just making sure. You oky, bud?”
[B looked at the cezve. Still cold. S’s mornings were five thousand miles away.]
“Yes”, he murmured.
The footsteps lessen on the creaked old floor, T retreated down the hall. B saved the documents as “FINAL_FINAL_V7”, and opened his notebook: “Translation as a disappearing act.” Half-written thoughts for an upcoming essay. In a separate tab, he opened another assignment, an email from his employer—“ktiindustries@kti.de”—one instruction: “Standard rate, due upon completion.”
He dry-swallowed the other half and felt his thoughts organized into a transactional rows. The coffee felt bitter, thick. Outside, the light started to fallen through each crevice of the rising tree in the spring weather B began typing. In three hours, he’d run to the harbor and back. In four, he’d shower. In five, he’d walk to Cima’s and K would pour him his favorite Scotch, that would make one’s edge soft again. But for now, there are only words required translations, shifted through the conversion as if it doesn’t want to be processed.
His phone rang. San Francisco again. This time he recognized the number. — Dr. M’s office. The appointment that he missed, probably
The radiator knocked. A brown leaf abandoned the last living plant and spun once before settling on the sill. Tomorrow he would water them. Or Thursday. Whichever arrived with kinder light.