22
soft rain. the sky shaded grey, a single streak of sunlight peeking through. light patter against the balcony railing.
her back faces me. plain, white blouse paired with a plain blue sweater. at the sink, she's washing a pair of mugs. blue. the smell, earthy and strong, fills the room. two scoops per mug, and the jar goes back into the cupboard.
i look out of the balcony window. one of the lights in the apartment across the street is on. a singular lamp light, from the looks of it, placed above their dining table. its ghostly illumination, with the rain shading it yellow, made the outside world seem unreal, ghostly, ethereal. i could see no one in their living room.
she passes me a mug. its bright blue stands out against the bland, boring roomscape. it smells strong. acidic.
the rain seems to be getting heavier. her room, slowly darkening. our lengthening shadows stretch and morph as the weak rays of sunlight peeking through sift and teleport along with the movement of the steadily blacker clouds.
she's sitting on the sofa, sifting through the haphazard pile of letters on your coffee table. the faint thumps of paper on glass accompany the fast, rhythmic taps of rain outside.
i take a sip. dark, thick, bitter. full-bodied and black. bits of undissolved powder sticking to my tongue.
i look up. she's staring at me.
“how is it?” scratching a scabbed wound, other hand holding a half opened letter, its contents peeking out. surroundings barely visible, wrapped up together in the warm darkness.
“just how i like it,” i smile.