Fragment of a Burning

Your voice cuts through steam from my cup. I count the seconds between each word, save the way you pause before saying rain. Three weeks of coffee shop mornings— your shoulders slump deeper when you mention deadlines. I memorize this angle, how your jacket pulls at the seams. Today you ask about my weekend, folding a blue shirt corner to corner. I practice saying "maybe" but my throat closes like a fist. The bookstore holds us both in its quiet. You read the back of a paperback while I pretend to browse poetry, watching your thumb trace the spine's edge. Then you mention Sarah from accounting— how she laughs at your jokes, how she brought you coffee this morning. My chest tightens. I trace a slow breath over the stain on my sleeve, count the threads coming loose at my cuff. Tonight I'll walk past the bus stop where you wait each morning, past the crosswalk where you check your phone for messages I'll never send. Will you notice? Some hungers shrink when you stop feeding them. I'm learning to want the size of what's possible— your Tuesday morning nod, the way you say my name when others are listening, the steam rising from two separate cups.