the small iron assembly on the stove began to burble and hiss. he pressed his fingers to his eyes, and watched thoughts emerge swimming in the warm saline darkness. a hope that had gently lain trailing atop the waters grew heavy and broke the surface tension to sink slowly in a coiled spiral, a hungry twister's tip seeking the airless deeps.
she pressed her lips into a mute line, exhaled through her nose, and glanced sideways at the clock on the wall. its dim insistent staccato stuck and then strained as if clearing its throat, minute hand jumping angrily in place until with a sharp click it regained the customary rhythm.
"well," he gestured to the folded letter laid neatly beside the coffee service, "some stories write themselves, and all the characters don't appear in every act." the steam gasped forth from the spout of the small percolator as out tumbled two cups of coffee. he waved her to hers and carried his to the front door to stare out into the brittle light of the freezing afternoon.
amid watery shadows the doorway was a burning rectangle framing an immobile, gouged-out blackness. she moved the empty pot from the heat and fixed her eyes on his occluding stillness as she held the paper from the tray over the unwavering flame.
the hissing candescence rendered the contents forever irrelevant, wordlessly concurring as she whispered "a caesura."
