He came home to two mugs
on the counter — one
still warm. She'd made
tea for herself and
then, without thinking,
made a second one. For
nobody. For the version
of him who might have
come home earlier.
He stood there looking at
them. He could hear her
in the bedroom, scrolling
through her phone, the
sound of a video she
wasn't really watching.
He picked up the second
mug and poured it down
the sink. Not out of
anger, but because it
felt worse to drink it
than to throw it away.
The gesture meant
something. He just
didn't know what to do
with it.
"There's tea if you
want," she called out,
not looking up.
"I see that," he said.
Neither of them mentioned
that the tea had been
sitting there for an
hour, or that the
thought behind it had
been sitting there
longer. They moved around
each other in the kitchen
like two people orbiting
the same sun, always
close, never touching.
He wondered if she knew
she'd made it for him.
She wondered if he'd
noticed she had.