Everymorning he poured a steaming cup of coffee; tradition.
Everymorning I poured a lukewarm cup of coffee down the sink; habit.
Together, we made a schedule.
We were supposed to make a home.
So I could be a homemaker.
Now I'm just a house-minder.
I wander a house as barren as myself. And I think. All the time, I think. Why does he pour a cup of coffee every morning and never drink it? I don't even mind it being a waste, I just crave to uncover the motive.
It's Monday today. The day I feel best. I'm
bold and powerful and optimistic. He's grumpy. He's got work.
Work, work, work. He pours his coffee and sits down, ruffles his
newspaper, taps his fingers. I watch. He notices.
"What?" I can't tell if he's angry or annoyed. Is there a difference?
"Why do you pour your coffee, yet never drink it?" I question in a mixture of intesity and casualness.
He takes a strong gulp in reply, a faint shudder plays across his lips. I sigh. When I hear the door click shut I move to pour the coffee down the sink but today I pause, for a sip. It's like sickly sweet foul water. I shudder and the decievingly caramel-coloured mixture funnels down the sink.
Today is just another day, after all.