Sitting at the corner table of her favourite café with one of her friends, she listens attentively to what her friend is saying, all the while sipping her tea as punctuation. The quiet within her body resembles that of a brooding hen.
Her friend folds out all her despair onto the table: the hateful words her lover spoke, how the situation had escalated into a full-blown, almighty fight, the hurt, the pleading, the slammed door, the grabbing of keys, and the sound of the car engine as he drove away. The silence of his not picking up his phone.
Her friend recounts every detail, as if rubbing away a stain that will not disappear. “Out, damned spot, out, I say!”
She is at a loss as to what she can say to her friend. She who has never loved before, never allowed herself the indulgence of deep despair or blissful pleasure. Her mind wanders away from the stream of words her friend is speaking in her direction, but not to her.
As if her friend notices the lull in attention, she stops talking and looks over, waiting for some words of consolation. She moves her gaze away from wherever it had wandered and back in the direction of her friend’s dilemma.
She accidentally tips over the sugar pot. Her friend continues talking while she scoops up the sugar and places it back into the pot.
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