My coffee was cold. Even Mondays in May made what the Scientists, the Politicians, the Polar Bears feared most appear paradoxical. To the Brazilian girl, it's crimson fruit, it's the precarious nature of Spring's rain.
Her honeysuckle, laden with Mother's Milk never smelled more like home.
But to me, it was a blissful pain, it was a snuggled sip between salvation and the last word she wished she hadn't said.
She summoned sunshine, displacing the haunted memories of a past which refuse to recede; she poured hot coffee.