It was a tiny cup, with a curved ear for a handle and a bit of gold etched around the rim. A floral cup. A lady’s cup. A cup that needed a saucer for support. For completion, he said. He loved her pink and green cup and brought her tea in it every morning, the cup tinkling on the saucer as he set it at the bedside table. They both knew she couldn’t drink the tea, but the narrow plume of heat spreading mint and lemon in the room comforted them. He’d sit on the side of the bed, just for a moment. Drink it while it’s hot, he said, then kissed her on the lips and left.
As soon as he was out the door, she ran her trembling fingers along her dry, scaly lips, lips nobody would want, and hope he who noticed everything hadn’t noticed that.
©2011 Kathleen Coskran