What is it like living in an alternate universe were accidental spills never happen? How wonderful is it wandering around a bar with a martini glass in your hand without leaving a drunken Hansel and Gretel trail of your $14 cocktail trailing behind you? Do you juggle pitchers of water just for fun? Forgive me if these questions are too personal or I’ve jumped to conclusions, but I just assumed you’re from a different planet—perhaps one with a less restrictive gravitational pull—because why else would any rational human being bring an uncovered coffee mug onto public transportation?
In a perfect world, we’d have never met. Like so many train passengers not remarkable enough to tweet about, you’d spend your commute skimming Facebook on your phone while I wrote my book on my laptop. I had just gotten into the zone, inspired by an idea and furiously asdfghjkling it into existence when someone whispering yelling, “Shit!” interrupted me. I looked up and saw you leaning over the armrest of the seat towards the aisle, but before I could even theorize what weird shit you were doing, the smell hit me before the true horror of the situation came into view. You had spilled your precious coffee, and judging by its hue alone, it was probably more milk and sugar than anything else. (Even though I’m not a coffee drinker, I understand that I should respect spills from black coffee drinkers more than those who alter their coffee.)
It was remarkable to me how subdued you were about the whole affair. You made no announcement. You asked no one if they had a napkin. You didn’t rush to the vile lavatory in the next train car to collect paper towels or toilet paper. I was so stunned to see the caramel fluid that it didn’t occur to me the train’s forward trajectory was directing the puddle of Joe back towards my bag. You turned to me and mustered an embarrassed, “I’m sorry,” before turning around and leaving me to combat the coffee spill. You didn’t even look down to see how far it had spread. What if my bag was Louis Vuitton? A Michael Kors? A Target bag circa 2010 that’s my favorite one and fits all my shit in a way no other bag ever will? Where was your concern for my belongings? Weren’t you worried what horrors gate might have in store for the scuffed, pleather boots from Forever 21 that click when I walk and make my butt look good?
With my bag on my lap, I watched the coffee ooze closer to my feet. I had assumed the same uncomfortable, at-attention position you adopt whenever you see a bug crawling on the floor just out of reach from squishing distance. The girl sitting next to me tossed her crumped Dunkin’ Donuts napkin into the middle of the pool. She was so blasé about it that it seemed like the beginning of a poker game in which we all wager our sponge-like refuse for the continued prosperity of our personal effects.
I rifled through my bag looking for something to sop up the spill. I’ll admit, I was naively optimistic that perhaps somehow I’d accidentally included an old rag when I was making my lunch that morning. I found only paper, a maxipad, and the travel package of Kleenex I use to blot my nose like an older lady who combats cold weather by blotting her nose and keeping a supply of individual peppermints in her pocket. For a millisecond, I considered humiliating the coffee spiller by handing her the maxipad, but that was less about getting revenge and more about a sudden curiosity about how maxipads could handle spills in the absence of paper towels. I had no choice but to expose the existence of my travel Kleenex and be reprimanded by Kindle guy next to me who gave me admonishing side-eye that articulated, “All this commotion is interrupting my reading, and you’re about 30 years too young to have travel Kleenex in your purse.”
I became someone I don’t like for you that day: a woman who cleans up someone else’s mess disgusting liquefied bean mess using a stranger’s discarded Dunkin’ Donuts napkin and her own runny nose intervention kit. They say not to cry over spilled milk, but I think spilling coffee near another woman’s bag warrants menacing bitch face every time she sees you.
The next time you wake up in the morning feeling like P. Don’ty, put your coffee in a real thermos. If you value your caffeine, you will put a lid on it.
Sincerely,
Stressin’ Because You Were French Pressin’
