The Mug Got Cold

June eighth. There's a mug on the table that I forgot to drink. That's the whole summary, really. I made tea at seven, sat down, and apparently spent the next forty minutes doing absolutely nothing productive in the traditional sense, just sitting with the particular low hum of having thought about the same person several times today without having any useful thoughts about them.

I don't have a lot to report. That's the honest thing. There's someone, that's as far as I've gotten. I haven't told Simone. I haven't told the blog, until right now, and even right now I'm being pretty careful about what 'telling the blog' actually means. The box is on the shelf, still folded flat. Gerald put out a new leaf sometime in the last week and I only noticed this evening, which felt on-brand. The cord is on the windowsill. Everything is where it belongs. I am sitting in the middle of it thinking about a person I have not done anything about.

the fourth time thinking about the same thing today

The mug was still warm when I picked it up again. That's the closest thing to a plot development I have. I looked at the windowsill for a while, the photographs, the letterpress card, the cord, the small object from Carol's box sitting slightly apart from the rest, and I thought about the gap that's been there since 2017, the one that got named as the sixth object, and whether having something sitting in you that you haven't placed yet is the same kind of thing. Probably I'm overcomplicating a mug of cold tea.

just looking at the windowsill, as one does

I don't know what comes next. That's not an ending, it's just where I am. The kitchen light is warm. Gerald's vine is doing whatever Gerald's vine does. And there's someone I keep thinking about, which is apparently enough to fill an entire Thursday evening and a whole blog post without anything happening at all.