He’d wake me up every morning. Hacking up something in the sink. Stirring his coffee, the spoon ringing off the mug. Shoving the toaster’s latch like he was cocking a shotgun. Humming along to radio. Stomping around with his work boots on.
I couldn’t get back to sleep. Ever. So I’d wait until I heard the door slam, and his truck start. Then I’d get up. Sometimes, he would have left the coffee machine on and I’d have a cup or let it boil down to a black sludge.
That way he’d have to clean it when he got home.