Coffee at Three in the Morning

He was sitting on the living room sofa at three in the morning. An hour so quiet that even the sound of steam rising from the coffee cup seemed loud. Outside, the streetlamp light spread yellow, and the dark beyond it was still deep. The scent she'd left before falling asleep, a soft blend of shampoo and hand cream, would still be on the pillow. He took a sip of coffee. Bitter, and slightly cooled. Slowly turning a finger around the rim of the cup, he looked at his reflection in the window. Whether there was one more line at the corner of his eye, or whether it was just the light, he couldn't tell. The moment the red numbers on the microwave in the kitchen changed from 03:17 to 03:18, he breathed out once more. Morning hadn't come yet. But far off, the dawn light seeping out between the buildings was slowly deepening. He set down the coffee cup and turned his head toward the door of the room where she was still sleeping. The dark seeping through the gap in the door had just begun to turn a pale gray.