The ceramic cup

The white ceramic mug has a small, grey chip near the handle. He holds it so his thumb covers the rough spot.

It is nine-fifteen. The small café near the intersection smells of roasted beans and damp umbrellas left by the door. Outside, the streetlights cast long, yellow reflections across the wet asphalt. A delivery motorcycle idles at the light, its engine a low, vibrating hum that enters through the glass window and then fades as the signal turns green.

He sits on the stool closest to the radiator. It gives off a dry, metallic warmth that smells faintly of old dust. On the counter rests a paper receipt from a grocery store three towns away, dated two weeks ago. He sees the items listed—salt, lightbulbs, a box of matches—written in the faint purple ink of a register running out of ribbon.

The barista is wiping the espresso machine with a clean white cloth, a slow, repetitive motion that rhythmically cuts through the quiet. The steam valve lets out a sudden, sharp hiss, then settles back into silence.

He intends to sort through the folders in his bag before the night ends. The zipper is half-open, revealing the edge of a yellow legal pad, but the pen remains tucked into his front pocket. It stays there.

There is a kitchen counter from ten years ago with the exact same shade of brown laminate. A house where the windows rattle whenever the wind comes from the east. A radio plays low in an empty hallway. He cannot recall the song, but the tone of the announcer's voice remains clear.

The coffee in the mug is nearly gone, leaving a dark, translucent ring against the white porcelain. He does not wave for a refill. The rain against the glass changes pace, turning from a heavy downpour to a soft, rhythmic patter.

The barista sets the cloth down and turns off the overhead light above the counter, leaving only the amber lamp burning.

He moves his thumb. The grey chip near the handle is cold now.