Christmas with Cups

The taste of the bitter coffee
lingering on my mouth.
The weight of your words
weighing me down.
The clouds of smoke
hovering around me.

I stay still,
don't let it show.
And you keep going on and and on and on;
trying to talk me down.
I sit in and take it all in,
like I am soaking up the Sun.

You dab your cigarette on the astray
quite harshly, might I add.
Now you're pointing at me,
screaming all sort of names.
Your hazel eyes raging,
your words stinging.

And I toy with my cup.
The coffee sill close to the rim.
'Maybe I should add a little sugar,' I muse.
But maybe, I should not.
I hear a little shuffling and muttering.
Then follows and eerie silence.

I look up and find him
making his way past the glass door.
Then I see his latte with the rosette still firm.
 "Oh, Good Lord. What waste," I utter.
I reach out and sip it slightly.
"Mmm...It certainly never is bad."

Thus, I sit with the two coffee cups
and a Christmas song playing softly in the backdrop.
Across the street, a child is tugging
at the hem of his mother's coat.
Then I look at his coffee cup on the table
and whisper into the quiet "Merry Christmas to you too..."