He didn’t know how long he was looking down. It should have been awkward, the long silences, but somehow he didn’t feel it amidst the mental disarray. Or perhaps such silences have become characteristic.
The tea was lukewarm now, and distastefully bland – he had not put sugar because she didn’t. Not that it mattered. The tea was just something to hid behind, to wash down the words stuck in his throat. He stirred the tea with deliberation, holding the spoon too tightly. He watched as the crumbs which had fallen in irretrievably twirled and danced at the bottom. Then all at once, he felt an insuppressible urge to cry.