The cup was yours this morning.
It’s funny how it’s yours one day and mine the next. Coffee and tea, tea and coffee.
A small clay creation – a model of those little white porcelain ones you get with your jasmine tea at a yum cha. But this one is different. Misshaped and glazed with an array of colours that don’t go well together.
The cup on the table is missing.
Where did you put it?
It cradled your coffee. Your coffee, today. The day before last, my tea. Green tea – for the antioxidants. Your coffee – for the caffeine addiction.
Opposites attract. But stop using my cup for that sludgy stuff. It’s not big enough for coffee, anyway. I should buy you a mug.
But the cup. Smooth and imperfect. Ugly, but precious. Where is it now? I’ve been looking for it.
My mind is leaking, leaking. Into the air around me so I cannot collect the runaway thoughts. I give it a shake.
Shouting, yelling, slamming doors. We forgot how to share. We forgot how to communicate.
The bedside table.
I could bound up the stars. It will be there. Unmoving, on a pile of unread books – second-hand ones with folded covers and dog-eared pages – the rare ones you collect, but never even read.
It will be there, its brown and red and pink swirls holding cold coffee. In the bedroom, because you drank the stuff into the night, even though you know I hate the smell.
But somehow, I know. No awful airplane-breakfast stench. No cup. Nothing. But shattered porcelain, broken, in crumbly pieces on the floor, bathed in a puddle of black juice. The cold coffee is finally free, I suppose.
Ebb and flow, swirling, swirling. The painting of the pristine sea above our bed. I can hear it whoosh.