A Cure Over Coffee
by Pontius Paiva
The church across the street looks busy for a Thursday. People shuffle in and out. I count the cars as they drag along the wet streets of town. The steam from the pavement and car exhausts rise and blend seamlessly into the morning mist.
I sit at a little table outside a cafe, patiently waiting for the waitress to come back and freshen my cup of coffee. I took a few pills earlier and now find myself fumbling with the empty pill bottle. The pills available now are nothing less than amazing. Depression, anxiety? Curable, with a single pill. Cancer? Depending on the type and severity, anywhere from half a dozen to a dozen pills and you're good to go.
My focus drifts back to the display across the street. The churchgoers are dressed in black, an air of sadness about them. Ah, it's a funeral service. The weather seems fitting enough for that. It is a gloomy day. Misty and drizzling, ominous gray clouds loom, threatening an outburst at any moment.
Watching the mourners grieve and console one another, I can't help but think about the many different ways people deal with loss. Death... still no pill to cure that one. Although, about ten years ago I took an anti-aging pill. Since then, I look as if I hadn't aged a day.