The Second Cup

Picture it. You've already finished one cup. It's that hour in the morning when the light has moved across the table and touched the edge of your hands. You're about to stand up and get on with the day.

Then he says, "Pour another one. I'm not in a hurry."

You sit back down, because almost no one says that to you. The first cup was small talk: the weather, the work, the list. The second cup is different. It's slower. The steam rises and neither of you says anything for a moment, and it isn't awkward.

Then he asks you one question, gently, as if he already knows the answer and wants to hear you say it anyway:

“What have you been carrying that you never set down on the table?”

To sit with

• What comes to mind first? What comes to mind second, after you've been honest?
• Why did you keep it off the table? Was it fear, habit, or a feeling that it wasn't important enough?
• What would it look like to put it down, here, with him, for the length of one cup?