By the time I join him at the kitchen island,
he has poured my coffee,
adds milk,
slides my marine-life mug from Biarritz towards me.
I always smile at the little blue fish
on the inside of the rim.
Taking my first sip,
I look up at him over the rim,
both hands holding my hot cup close to my lips.
I pout,
I say,
“I left you something on your pillow.”