Sitting Out

He slipped on his favorite grey V-neck and grabbed his coffee mug.

And as if he could care less, he chuckled and the coffee spilled.

Warm on him, but warmer was his smile that diverted attention away from the stain on fabric.

His Wayfarers were askew as his eyes looked straight, beyond the pan-lined walls of the kitchen, beyond his duties of chopping onions.


Ah, a hint of vanilla.

In your eyes? On your clothes.

In that book, where you kept a bookmark of a puppy in a flower basket.


Maybe ice cream, but even then, it wouldn’t be the same.


Another V-Neck shirt in the laundry, tumbling for five minutes, cold water. Detergent and fabric conditioner.

Grey in the cold.

Blues, purples, and greens in hot water.

Green. Maybe emerald. I couldn’t tell. He blinked all too quickly. Those gems in their sockets darted left and right.

Can I please have an espresso? 


Flashes. Oh but were they?

Could they be dismissed as mere nuisances?

Listen: Laughter.

He spilled it on his shirt.

Ah, there’s always another one.


It’s alright.


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