The Temperature of Morning

The water in the glass on the table caught the sun through the window and cast a small rainbow on the floor. She pressed the edge of her toast with a fork, scattering crumbs. Across from her, he had been staring at a single page of the newspaper for a long time without turning it. The low burble of the kettle, the sudden hum of the refrigerator. In between, the sound of her finger brushing the handle of her cup was unusually distinct. “Take your medicine before you go.” He nodded. Instead of answering, he lifted his cup and swallowed the last sip. She knew he'd heard the same words last night too. Still, it felt like something she had to say. When he stood and pushed in his chair, the wooden legs scraped the floor with a short tearing sound. While he put on his shoes at the door, she looked at the small cactus on the kitchen windowsill. Dew on the tips of its spines held the light. The sound of the door closing, and then only the faint warmth of the kettle remained in the room. She pressed her palm to the table. A warm spot was still there.