The Twitch

He’s there making three brews. The fun starts with the coffee. Azera for the win, of course. He dips the spoon in, gets a good heap. Moves it over the mug.

TWITCH. 

For fuck’s sake. Half of it goes in the mug. The other half? All over the countertop. 

Andy cleans up, sighing like a deflating balloon. He’s used to it. But it’s always annoying. And hang on, the sugar. He concentrates. Spoon in the caddy. Not a heaped spoon. Enough to cover the spoon. Over the mug… And in. Result. He shakes a victory fist in the air. 

The kettle boils. Two teas and his coffee. He pours. No dramas there. Into the mugs. Time to let the tea steep. He gives his coffee mixture a good stir. Then pours while stirring. Skills, right there. Another victory punch in the air. 

Oh fuck. He’s now got to carry two mugs of tea into the living room. He picks them up. Walks slow. Dead slow. Makes it out of the kitchen and across the hall. Into the living room. 

Mary’s there. 

—Alright there, love? 

He says nothing. Full-on concentration. Places the mugs down on the coasters. Fucking yes, get in. No spillage. 

—Yep, all good, he says. 

He goes back into the kitchen, scoops up his coffee with the confidence of an idiot. Walks back into the living room…

FUCK! The big twitch. He gets the mug down in time. No spillage. 

—Well done, Mary says. 

Andy feels like an idiot. She means well. But all he did was take three drinks into the living room. 

They call it an essential tremor. Which is odd, because he’s had it for years and he’s yet to find a single bloody use for it.

Is it a superpower? Is there a comic book hero somewhere called The Twitcher?. A cool version of The Witcher, maybe? 

if uncontrollably spilling tea counts as a skill, he knows he’s basically a Jedi.

The night time is another fucking disaster zone. 

He twitches like a startled haddock being tasered by a jazz band. Mary says it’s like sleeping next to someone trying to send Morse code with their knees. 

—They call it essential tremor, love. 

—It’s a bloody nuisance, I don’t know about essential. 

—I can’t help it. Calling it a nuisance is not that supportive. 

She gives him the look. That one. The one women are born with for when men say something stupid. 

—Neither is the mattress after you flail yourself across it like a wounded gazelle.

He sits there having a think. There is a real challenge in carrying drinks. Honestly, it’s like cheese rolling but with crockery. He can leave the kitchen with a mug and arrive in the living room with a mug-shaped puddle and a faint smell of scorched thigh.

It’s not so much shaken, not stirred—more like spilled, apologised for, and mopped up with a tea towel that’s seen more spillages than it ever wanted to. 

On a good day, he can get 90% of the liquid to the cup. On a bad day, he licks it off his sleeve and calls it “espresso mist.”

He has another thought. Typing? Oh yes, his fingers now do jazz hands. He tres to write “toast” and end up with “toarst.” Autocorrect’s given up. Every email looks like he’s being held hostage by a mischievous octopus.

He once tried to type “Thanks” and sent “Thabks.” That’s not gratitude—it’s the sound you make when you drop a stapler on your foot.

Which brought him to that morning.

One hand shook coffee across the floor. The other mis-judged a slice of toast so badly he ended up jamming himself in the ear. Mary just watched in silence, like Attenborough observing a clumsy walrus trying to build a gazebo.

By 9am he’d already had two spills, a jam-based injury, and a short existential crisis over whether he should drink everything through a straw and start wearing a bib.

But it’s fine. You’ve got to laugh, he says to himself. 

—Mary, love? Stand back when I raise my mug. I can’t guarantee what direction the splash zone will go.

—I’m getting you a sippy cup. One of those they use for babies. 

—I’m wounded. 

She smiles. Stands and goes out to put a wash on. It’s got three coffee-stained tea towels in it.