Outro. One Warm Cup of Coffee

Mike the Archivist (and Fidget)

gothic music-box ballad, electroswing, Clockwork Cabaret

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V5.5

# **One Warm Cup of Coffee**

*The Archivist — Reprise*

[Intro — solitary piano, distant music box]

Seven-thirty came and went.

Funny.

I used to be rather good
at waiting.

[Verse 1]
One lamp burning by my chair,
One old book pretending I don't stare
At the doorway every minute or two,
As though looking might bring them through.

Fidget said, "I'll bring her back."
Then vanished through a temporal crack.

So here I sit.
Nothing to fight.
Nothing to research.
Nothing to write.

Just an empty chair across from me...

And one warm cup of coffee.

[Chorus]
One warm cup of coffee,
Waiting by the light,
One chair left open
For someone late tonight.

Let the old clocks argue,
Let tomorrow disagree,
I'll keep one warm cup of coffee
Here with me.

No grand gesture.
No clever line.
Just something warm
when she gets back in time.

One warm cup of coffee.

That's enough tonight.

[Verse 2]
I've read this page eleven times.
The words haven't changed.
Neither have the chimes.

Every sound becomes the door,
Every footstep in the corridor
Makes me look up—

Nothing there.

Back to the book.
Back to the chair.

The rational part of me insists
Fidget knows what she's doing.

Which may be
the least comforting sentence
I've ever written.

Still...

She promised.

I believe her.

That's new too.

[Chorus]
One warm cup of coffee,
Waiting by the light,
One chair left open
For someone late tonight.

Let the gears keep turning,
Let the lost worlds disagree,
I'll keep one warm cup of coffee
Here with me.

If she comes back tired,
If she comes back cold,
If she's got seventeen explanations
I have already been told—

She'll have one warm cup of coffee.

And somewhere safe to be.

[Bridge — music box and cello]

I've spent years
waiting for things that never came back.

People.
Places.
Worlds.

Eventually you learn
to stop setting places for them.

It's easier.

Then someone sits in the empty chair.

Starts fixing things
that weren't particularly broken.

Leaves tools on your desk.

Steals half your books.

Promises seven-thirty tomorrow
as though tomorrow
were guaranteed.

And somehow...

you start setting out two cups again.

[quietly]

So come home, Widget.

Your coffee's getting cold.

[Instrumental — faint Cabaret swing enters]

[Verse 3]
Minute hand moves.
Hour hand too.
There's very little left for me to do.

So I warm the pot.
Replace the cup.
Sit back down.
Look up.

Nothing.

Fine.

Again.

Warm the pot.
Replace the cup.

Sit back down.

Look—

[very distant sound]

...

Was that—

No.

[pause]

There.

Footsteps.

Several.

Fast ones.

And one voice
already talking far too loudly.

[Fidget, distant]
I SAID I MOSTLY DIDN'T BREAK ANYTHING!

[Widget, distant]
YOU BROKE TIME!

[Fidget]
TEMPORARILY!

[long silence]

[Archivist laughs softly]

Of course.

[Final Chorus — warm Cabaret electroswing]
One warm cup of coffee,
Waiting by the light,
One chair kept open
Through a very long night.

Let the clocks stop arguing,
Let tomorrow finally be,
There's one warm cup of coffee—

No.

[soft laugh]

Make it three.

One for the fox
who punched a hole through time,

One for the light
who helped her find the line,

And one for the woman
walking through that door—

Who I was beginning
to miss considerably more
than I intended to admit.

[Outro — piano]

The door opens.

Fidget enters first.

Naturally.

Lumen follows.

And then...

Widget.

Hair a mess.
Coat torn.
Grease on her cheek.

Alive.

She looks at the desk.

Then at me.

Then at the coffee.

"You waited."

...

I push the cup toward her.

"You're late."

She smiles.

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"No."

She sits.

And for a little while
nobody says anything.

The Conservatory can wait.

The Archives can wait.

Even tomorrow can wait.

There's a light burning.

There's someone in the chair.

And between us...

One warm cup of coffee.

[soft music box plays the first notes of the Cabaret theme]

Seven-thirty tomorrow?

[Widget, softly]
Seven-thirty.

[final piano chord]

Good.

3976/7500

# **One Warm Cup of Coffee** *The Archivist — Reprise* [Intro — solitary piano, distant music box] Seven-thirty came and went. Funny. I used to be rather good at waiting. [Verse 1] One lamp burning by my chair, One old book pretending I don't stare At the doorway every minute or two, As though looking might bring them through. Fidget said, "I'll bring her back." Then vanished through a temporal crack. So here I sit. Nothing to fight. Nothing to research. Nothing to write. Just an empty chair across from me... And one warm cup of coffee. [Chorus] One warm cup of coffee, Waiting by the light, One chair left open For someone late tonight. Let the old clocks argue, Let tomorrow disagree, I'll keep one warm cup of coffee Here with me. No grand gesture. No clever line. Just something warm when she gets back in time. One warm cup of coffee. That's enough tonight. [Verse 2] I've read this page eleven times. The words haven't changed. Neither have the chimes. Every sound becomes the door, Every footstep in the corridor Makes me look up— Nothing there. Back to the book. Back to the chair. The rational part of me insists Fidget knows what she's doing. Which may be the least comforting sentence I've ever written. Still... She promised. I believe her. That's new too. [Chorus] One warm cup of coffee, Waiting by the light, One chair left open For someone late tonight. Let the gears keep turning, Let the lost worlds disagree, I'll keep one warm cup of coffee Here with me. If she comes back tired, If she comes back cold, If she's got seventeen explanations I have already been told— She'll have one warm cup of coffee. And somewhere safe to be. [Bridge — music box and cello] I've spent years waiting for things that never came back. People. Places. Worlds. Eventually you learn to stop setting places for them. It's easier. Then someone sits in the empty chair. Starts fixing things that weren't particularly broken. Leaves tools on your desk. Steals half your books. Promises seven-thirty tomorrow as though tomorrow were guaranteed. And somehow... you start setting out two cups again. [quietly] So come home, Widget. Your coffee's getting cold. [Instrumental — faint Cabaret swing enters] [Verse 3] Minute hand moves. Hour hand too. There's very little left for me to do. So I warm the pot. Replace the cup. Sit back down. Look up. Nothing. Fine. Again. Warm the pot. Replace the cup. Sit back down. Look— [very distant sound] ... Was that— No. [pause] There. Footsteps. Several. Fast ones. And one voice already talking far too loudly. [Fidget, distant] I SAID I MOSTLY DIDN'T BREAK ANYTHING! [Widget, distant] YOU BROKE TIME! [Fidget] TEMPORARILY! [long silence] [Archivist laughs softly] Of course. [Final Chorus — warm Cabaret electroswing] One warm cup of coffee, Waiting by the light, One chair kept open Through a very long night. Let the clocks stop arguing, Let tomorrow finally be, There's one warm cup of coffee— No. [soft laugh] Make it three. One for the fox who punched a hole through time, One for the light who helped her find the line, And one for the woman walking through that door— Who I was beginning to miss considerably more than I intended to admit. [Outro — piano] The door opens. Fidget enters first. Naturally. Lumen follows. And then... Widget. Hair a mess. Coat torn. Grease on her cheek. Alive. She looks at the desk. Then at me. Then at the coffee. "You waited." ... I push the cup toward her. "You're late." She smiles. "Sorry." "No, you're not." "No." She sits. And for a little while nobody says anything. The Conservatory can wait. The Archives can wait. Even tomorrow can wait. There's a light burning. There's someone in the chair. And between us... One warm cup of coffee. [soft music box plays the first notes of the Cabaret theme] Seven-thirty tomorrow? [Widget, softly] Seven-thirty. [final piano chord] Good.

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