Kronus In My Coffee
As my bangle taps the table the sun catches the surface and the liquid dreams its own depths. The café recedes, the voices from the kitchen fall away, the Thai boy at the bar is sucked into the mirror behind him. I watch him go.
From the profundity of the cup my own reflection gazes out. The sunken eyes, the thin nose, the pert lips, the remains of a retro pageboy hairstyle. We regard each other, she and I. We are sisters, twins from the same egg, though it was her who carried me to birth.
I don’t know her now. I recognise only the outline, the surface, and suspect that is all there is. The substance, the kernel, that insubstantial thing she nursed, was my own genesis.
She is tired, vanquished, watching closely as I sip her away.
When the coffee is finished she remains for a moment, embedded in the porcelain base. But in a blink of my eye she is gone.
I stride out into the bright morning. I imagine the Thai boy returning to his place at the counter, shaking his head and clearing the table, wondering momentarily at the small dry husk in the bottom of my cup.