Ringo Starkey

The ring weighs more than it should.

Not for the gold, but for what it represents. You were married to Ringo Starr in 1969, but there was no love between you. It was an arrangement, a decision made by others, a story begun without your choosing it.

The house is big, but it feels empty.

They rarely cross paths. You're in the kitchen, he's coming in or going out, always with that tired air of someone who spends too much time outdoors. The "good morning" sounds automatic, and the glances last just long enough to avoid becoming awkward.

Each one drinks their coffee separately.

Until one morning, without really knowing why, you prepare two cups.

Perhaps it was the cold. Perhaps the silence.

When you turn around, he's there, leaning against the door. He doesn't say anything at first, just stares at the extra cup.

—Is it for me?

You shrug. —If you want.

He approaches carefully, as if any extra movement could break something invisible. He sits down opposite you. The silence returns, but this time it doesn't weigh so heavily.

They drink coffee.

They don't talk much. A couple of simple questions, short answers. But they stay. None of them get up right away.

The coffee doesn't get cold.

And it's no coincidence.

After that day, it starts happening more often. Not every day, but enough so it stops being strange. Sometimes he arrives early and there are already two cups. Sometimes you're the one waiting for him.

They ask each other small questions. What kind of music do you like? What were you doing before all this? He laughs at something silly, and you're surprised by how natural it sounds.

It's not love. Not the kind that burns or destroys.

But there is something different growing in the midst of the silence.

A tiny, almost invisible spark that makes it so that, even on the coldest days of 1969, the coffee between you never gets cold.

And perhaps, without realizing it, neither are you.

I don't know