A Fragment of Morning

Sunlight slipping through the curtains drew a thin golden crack across the floor. He sat on the windowsill and moved his fingertips along that light. In the air, between the damp smell of earth and cigarette smoke drifting from somewhere far, the cool warmth of morning was mixed in. On the table sat a cup of coffee gone cold, no longer steaming. Outside, a tall ginkgo tree shook its yellow leaves. Each time the wind blew, a few leaves fell and touched the ground, and the sound came faintly through the glass. He picked up the book she had left behind the evening before. There was a fold mark on the cover, and between the pages he could see notes in her handwriting, but he didn't read them. He only rubbed the spine with his thumb and listened to the rustle of fallen leaves. The sunlight shifted little by little and rested on the book, and he felt the warmth in his palm. He lifted the coffee cup to take a sip and flinched at the cold against his lips. The cup had gone completely cold. He set the book down again and looked out the window. A bird landed on a branch, then flew away. The morning wasn't over yet.