The small kitchen table holds a faint, dry ring mark near the edge. It is the precise shape of a ceramic cup, though the cup itself has no visible saucer or handle. Just before the sun crests the window frame, the light catches the dust motes settling on the cup’s rim. The surface of the ceramic is a pale, unremarkable white, scuffed slightly near the lip. It sits angled perfectly, as if waiting for a hand that has not yet arrived. A thin layer of fine, grey dust has settled across the empty space where a liquid would pool. The wood grain beneath the cup is worn smooth, bearing the patina of countless mornings. Everything else on the table—the salt shaker, the stack of mismatched plates—is in its usual, predictable place. The cup remains, an extra object maintaining a silent, routine geometry on the worn wood.
hush · uneasy