A Soothing Short by
Ivy Camden
Morning
The cup was still there.
Not in the cupboard where it belonged. Not even on the drying rack.
Just… there. Beside the sink. Half full of yesterday’s tea.
June stared at it like it might move. Like it might explain something.
The spoon leaned inside at a crooked angle, one edge dark from steeping too long.
She reached for it, then didn’t.
The silence in the house was wide. She could hear the refrigerator click on in the next room.
The cup had a chip on the rim. Not enough to toss it. Just enough to remember how it got there.
Noon
She didn’t rinse it. She thought she would, but she didn’t.
Instead, she moved it an inch to the left to wipe the counter.
Outside, a delivery van idled for a moment, then left.
She thought about the time he brought her the cup. A beach town gift shop, before the storm.
“Not your colors,” he’d said. “But it reminded me of you.”
It still did. Even now.
Evening
The cup was still there.
Now the tea had gone syrupy. Dust settled along the rim.
She stood with her hands in the dishwater, staring at it again.
Not crying. Not quite.
Just standing there, elbow-deep in suds,
thinking about how some things don’t get washed away.
They just get… familiar.
And still, the cup sat there.
Like it had nowhere else to be.