The second cup of coffee

For about a week after we separated, I kept making two coffees in the morning.

We’d lived together for eleven years. I knew he wasn’t there. I’d helped carry the last boxes down the stairs. But half asleep, I still took two cups out of the cupboard.

The first few times, I poured the second coffee away. Then one Saturday I just stood there looking at it. The kitchen felt much too quiet.

My neighbour knocked to return a parcel she’d taken in for me. She’s in her seventies. We’d always been friendly, but we’d never really talked.

I asked if she wanted a coffee. She said yes, came in and sat at the kitchen table with her coat still on.

We talked about the broken lift and the price of tomatoes. After a while I told her why there were boxes in the hallway.

She listened. Then she asked whether I’d eaten anything.

It was such an ordinary question that I started crying. She stayed while I made some toast. She didn’t tell me it was for the best or that I would meet someone else.

Now she comes over on Saturdays. Sometimes we talk about him. Mostly we don’t.

I make one coffee on weekdays now. On Saturdays, I make two. I’m glad the second cup has somewhere to go.