He takes sugar, she—no milk. His flat white seems to taste ten times bitter. He glances at her face being steamed by the hot brew under her chin, her cheeks a shade of perylene red. She’s staring at an Amigurumi doll on the table across theirs. She remembers making one—some time ago. She gave it away because it’d brought mists in her eyes. Among other things. He remembers scooping the leftover memories and burying them. Deep in the ground like their son. Perhaps in the next anniversary drink she’d have some sugar, he a dash of milk.
— M Murniati