The Cup in the Sink
Was the fight really about the cup in the sink and whether it is called a cup?
This vessel is not large enough to hold his venom the hardness of the word fucking coming out of those kissable lips.
I thought it was just a cup. The only object in the sink. Purple, plastic, with a spill-proof lid. Harmless cylinder. Container for hydration.
I may have left one sip of tepid water in it, after spotting a cat hair clinging to the spout.
A fucking cup. Inconsequential. I was rushing out the door.
I assume he doesn’t remember last night, how he felt out of sorts. I led him outside to view the full moon, wrapped him in my rainbow shawl. We looked, together, gulping breaths of newly-cool September air.
I was only doing what women always do for the men they love, leading him back to the source.
It is never really about the cup, except when I pour from mine and it just swirls down the drain.
Christina Xiong is the author of The Gathering Song (Finishing Line Press 2018). Christina's work has appeared in Wild Goose Poetry Review, Cotton Xenomorph, Inside the Bell Jar, Brave Voices Magazine, and Awkward Mermaid. Christina holds an MA in English and Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University and a BA in Literature and Creative Writing from the University of North Carolina at Asheville. She is a Certified Story Medicine facilitator. She lives in the foothills of Western North Carolina with her family.