"This morning,"
she said,
hands wrapped for warmth
around her coffee cup,
"I woke up empty."

"Empty?" he asked,
spoonful of All-Bran
halfway to his mouth.
"Empty as in…how?"
For him,
empty could be good, like Zen:
    open,
    clear,
    ready.
Or empty could be sad, like death:
    resigned,
    purposeless,
    despairing.

"I'm not sure, exactly,"
was all she said.
He noted
her unfocused,
mid-table stare.

Gently he cleared the dishes,
leaving her with her mug
and her long look at nothingness,
into which,
at least for now,
he was not invited.

He stood at the sink,
hanging midway between
empathy and envy.

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All
rights reserved.