Honey in my coffee

Sitting in the car, he picks up the paper cup of cold coffee that’s been left in the cup holder all day long, and sips it, not registering any signs of displeasure in the taste (that I certainly don’t enjoy even watching him; yet I’ve grown accustomed to it) in fact he claims the coffee tastes better this way and I smile to myself in the endearing simplicity of such gestures that inexplicably hold me here. Like the need for that stale coffee, it can’t be helped. It’s the details, finding pleasure in the bitter sweet, and the moment after, that have in time, touched something within me. He takes a deep breath and sighs out loud, slight exhaustion coming over from a lack of solution to all of life’s problems; and with those strong coffee colored eyes he looks over at me, and in my eyes, his indulgent stare lingers, acknowledging unspoken words with indifference and sincerity and an air of resignation, with half-contented smiles, sympathetic, complicit, he then places the cup of coffee back in the cup holder, and starts the car.