138/365 01/06/2026

There is a silence in the aftermath. The morning after. Not a blanket, not a muffling. It is a silence that clears space for all sound. A silence that makes all sounds clean and clear and brittle in the cold morning light. 

The woman. She stands at the kitchen counter, both hands flat against the soapstone, shoulders hunched. The man stands in the doorway, his breathing shallow, a slight warble in his ears, tracking his heart beat. The woman breathes in, her lungs filling the room one small second, the rush of air like the rush of wind, and the cabinet door’s magnet release like a train uncoupling. That kind of volume. 

There are the mugs. Mismatched, obscenely colorful. Vulgar. The man watches. Waits. The woman extends a hand. The man wonders a test: how many mugs will she retrieve? Two? One.