When there is nobody left to whom "I told you so" could be directed, we come back to the beginning. The journey, long as it may seem, is roundabout in every way.
Full of doubt, I watch the steam rise up from my cup of tea. By the time your words and reassurances reach me, they are really half as serious as you meant them to be. The wall of steam filters all intentions. I've waited long enough to say that I am right, but when the tea is no longer steaming, behind the rising steam sits no one in particular. Only an indentation on the cushion signifies the weight of a person just only arised.
Like any other evening, I can hear the crickets calling out in search of a mate before sunrise. I don't suppose that even as a female cricket, I'd notice the singing of my beloved. Would I be contented with a brief life crushed by the soles of someone's work boots? I'd never even dream of them, work boots.
I've packed my things and left, because the warmth of my hands isn't enough to reheat the tea left unattended.
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