The cream rises to the top of the steaming cup and she watches it swirl and slide into the dark roast. In her mind, he stands next to her, his fingers pressing into the small of her back. She shivers at the thought, the memory of his hands touching her. She wonders if he misses her, if his body aches when he thinks of her. As she stands in the sun-bright kitchen, the coffee cools, steam no longer wafting from the forgotten cup.
The music thrums, heavy beats pumping through the smoky air. He lights another cigarette and takes a long, slow drag. The smoke fills his lungs but not the vacancy she left in his chest. The guitar strings used to ease the pain of remembering but now the chords long for their inspiration just as his hands ache to hold her one last time. He crushes the cigarette, ash staining his fingers and he lights another, hoping this will be the one when he finally forgets.