Spilt Coffee

Just any old Wednesday.
Misty with a moist heat that stifles my breath.
And here I am,
again
sliding around on sticky saffron tiles.
Soft round freckles smile:
“your usual muffin today, miss?”
But
before I can reply –
a bitter breeze
from the doorway turns my head.
Her.
As she always is.
With
that charcoal curtain across her face,
bony bare hands,
and no feet to stand on.
As she hovers, slightly
above stains,
I realise that
the muffins are decomposing,
the coffee bleeds
out,
and my past has returned.