My fourth decision of the day happened at seven past seven in the morning just as the second hand swept by the twelve.  At that exact moment I decided to change clothes again.     My first three decisions were to get dressed, change clothes, and then change clothes again.  I could say that making coffee was a decision, I had decided to make coffee in the past, but since my therapist said I should choose to make the coffee after I dressed the first time I cataloged this not as a decision but as a suggestion, or a prescription, just like alprazolam or buspirone.  

 I walked away from the kitchen, leaving the coffee can open and back to my bedroom which is the largest in the the apartment.  I took off my clothes, folded them replaced them onto the wooden hangers. I made sure the buttons on the oxford striped shirt were fully buttoned -- collar button, next button and then every other button until the last one which I left undone.  The pants took less time.  I’m good at hanging clothes.  I’ve had a lot of practice. 

The shirt I chose as a replacement was a pinpoint French blue, one hundred percent cotton, long-sleeved, with metal collar inserts.  No droopy collars for me.  The pants were the khaki chinos.  They had a good, but imperfect crease.  These were the only ones that I had that would go with the shirt.  I put them on with a braided faux leather belt.  

Now that I had dressed again, I was ready to go back and make the coffee.  I really felt sure that I would make it this time.  I turned around three times in front of the bedroom door and walked back to the kitchen.

 My roommate, Jim was at the French Press.  He was about to push down on the plunger when I entered.  I reminded him I was supposed to make the coffee.  It was a suggesting by my therapist. It was part of my attempt at getting better.

“Face it, Bill, you’ll never make the coffee….”  He didn’t even look at me when he said this.  He would have in the past, but now he wouldn’t.  I had worn out his patience.  I felt bad when he said that.  But he made the moment worse, much worse.  He continued “Never, never, never and never.” 

It was then that I hooked my hand around the press pulled it away from him, cupped my hands over the undersized knob and pushed down.  I was making the coffee.