Crumbs (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

(Lack of) Coffee

I sleep on the floor in the main room, curled up in the sheets and comforter set that I bought at Walmart. I could have made the drive back to the store, but I was so tired I could barely stand anymore.  It was pretty terrible, and when I wake up the next morning I’m almost certain I’m dead and in hell.  No, not hell, just Maryland.

The sun is streaming in through the windows and blinding me in the most cheerful, horrible way.  I take a minute to stretch out, arching my back and hearing almost every bone and joint in my body scream in horror.  I am too old to be sleeping on wood floors with a cheap comforter as my only cushion. 

The first thing on my mind is coffee, but I don’t have a coffee pot.  The second thing on my mind is coffee, but alas, I still don’t have a coffee pot.  The crazy thing about coffee is, once you need it to survive, you die in the morning when it’s not there.  My phone is plugged in to charge across the room, and I army crawl over to it.  I don’t have enough energy to actually stand up or use any large muscle groups.

I have a few text messages.  The first one is from Susan, the part time pastry chef here in Maryland.  She is texting to let me know that she’s covering everything that morning at Tiny Baker, and that she can pick up some hours while I am looking for a suitable replacement for Krissy.  I text her back, thanking her profusely and promising her my first born child.  The next text message is from my cousin, Laura.  She’s shocked to hear I’m in Maryland and says she desperately wants to get together to catch up.

Absolutely! Let’s have dinner soon. I send her the message and sit up, looking around the bare room.  It’s a good size, but it’s so empty.  I wonder if I should waste the time to get a sofa and a television, a few lamps and maybe paint the walls something that doesn’t scream “juvenile detention center” quite so much.  I wonder if it’s worth my time and money.  Perhaps.  After looking over the state of the bakery last night, I have this terrible nagging feeling that I will be in Maryland for at least a few weeks.

I spend the majority of the morning cleaning. I wipe and disinfect and scrub, figuring once everything is clean I can decide what to do with the place.  Whether I want to furnish it, or just get a bean bag chair and a blow up bed and call it frat boy central.  While I’m cleaning, my mind wanders.  I think about my Mom, and my family and everyone still in Maryland.  I think about Tom and Tiny Baker.  I think about how sweaty and disgusting I feel. 

It takes me until nearly four in the afternoon but I finish cleaning, and am covered in a light film of dust, cleaning product and sweat.  I haven’t eaten all day, and I’m running on negative amounts of sleep. I can’t take a shower at the cottage, since I don’t have any towels or soap, so I decide to make the short hike up the hill to the big house, aka The Smokey Oyster. I figure if I don’t take a break, get some food and get cleaned up soon, I may turn into one of those primordial creatures, rising from the ooze.  I leave the comfortable air conditioned cottage, and step out into the murky summer air.  I take a change of clothes with me and begin the short trek to my mother’s B&B.

The fields around the cottage are overgrown, and the weeds come up to about mid thigh.  I can just feel the bugs and pollen collecting on my bare legs, and I am dying even more for a cool shower.  I feel the sweat slowly trickling down my back and my dark hair sticks to my forehead.  Disgusting.  I remember running through these fields as a kid, moving back and forth between the big house and the cottage. 

The big house hasn’t always been a B&B.  Mom turned it into one after Dad died, as a way to keep up with the property, pay the bills and keep her busy.  She’s been successful too.  There isn’t much to do in Havre de Grace but for some reason people keep coming.  It doesn’t matter that they are usually octogenarians.  They really enjoy the cats, and the fields, and the soupy summer air, I guess.