Cold coffee

Dreary light struck old worn wood. It bounced off plates, a picture frames and disarray. Striking the detritus of the night before with a cold calace carelessness. Draining the world of colour in its blinding opulence.

It diffused across the surface of the abandoned, cold coffee. Indifferent to its allegory for a marital discontent.

Something strong had withered here. Year after year in the small cluttered room. With every object a systemic objection to the demand for the real reason, the spark, the foundation of the whitaker union.

Now angry words said and old chipped mugs thrown, the passion all burnt in one final refrain. Nothing remained of a union once strong. No kindness. No caring. No attraction of soul. Not even a whisper of once common ground. Just a cup of cold coffee on an old wooden table.