She is making tea

Kettle on stove

Steam wailing a funeral dirge

Covering the kitchen window in a splash of white

Leaves curling in the heat

She is making tea

He enters

Breathes deep

His hands are rough and clenched at his sides

His hair is black

whirled into cowlicks.

feet shuffling

A mug in her hands

Hair stuck to her face like seaweed

Floating in a shallow tide

Looks up, their eyes green pools

Absorbing light into sulfurous depths

The kettle screams

She turns, pours the water

In a crystal arc, drops

Flash in the morning light

And turns back

She is holding two mugs now

Would you like one?

Their hands meet

Fingers twisting around handles

Green pools swish and flow into each other

The tea is forgotten

Left behind on the kitchen table

They save it for later

-Madeline Gobbo