Reconcile

The coffee cup was not used for drinking coffee. Did that make it a coffee cup then? The only thing that it cupped was empty

space.

That’s what she wondered. Not about the mug, but about whether or not he was a liar. She wanted to call him a liar. It was harsher and had a satisfaction when spoken from her angry lips. He seldom lied. A liar would be more deceptive and less conspicuous if he staggering his lies, so people would never notice. Would that make him a liar then or a person who lies? She wanted to call him a liar because that would mean his lies were not from manipulation but from pain. She envisioned shattering that coffee cup into a million shards, and she wanted to call it a coffee cup.

The page was used for writing. The page could hold her pain. So she wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote until she found finality from vomiting out the words. The ink made her lies tangible. She could view them clearly and reread them and realize she is trying to force those words. And then later, she’ll reflect on it. She’ll laugh and cry. The truth could not be disengaged from, as the page could not be swallowed up by pop-up distractions and illusions.

She no longer wondered.

The coffee cup was not used for drinking coffee because she did not drink coffee. Coffee was not poured in that coffee cup, but it was still a coffee cup. She could not justify having it and she could not reconcile her life with his. She could not be with him.