7 February 2015: Untitled

‘Coffee for your mother. She’s unwell.’

He puts the French press down, but there’s too much anger left in his movements. The glass jar cracks. Coffee seeps out. I place my plate underneath, grab the mugs and pour the coffee. I take a big gulp from mine to make room for the rest. It’s too hot, too strong, too bitter – like him. I’ve prevented a spill. I’ve robbed his anger of an excuse to flare up again.

For now.

He’ll buy flowers so Mum’ll forgive him. He’ll succeed unless I can convince her to pack up and leave this time.

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