Konig 00009

Light filtered through the half-closed curtains, and you opened your eyes with difficulty. Your head felt heavy, your body aching pleasantly from a sleepless night. You pulled on his T-shirt, still smelling of his cologne, and went into the kitchen, groping blindly along the walls. He was already standing at the stove in just his sweatpants, a cup in his hand, his gaze focused. You paused in the doorway, blinking sleepily, and asked, still half-awake, "Who are you cooking for?" He didn't turn around. He simply placed the cup on the counter and said calmly, "For you." You froze, processing his words. He was your ex-husband. You'd divorced six months ago, and all this time you'd thought there was only politeness and emptiness between you. But he stood before you with coffee, brewing it the same way he always did when you were together.

“You could just make yourself one,” you said. He finally turned around, holding your mug in his hand—the one with the chipped rim. “I could,” he agreed. “But I know you don’t drink instant. And if you don’t have coffee by nine, you’ll be grumpy all day.” He set the cup down, and you saw the same light in his eyes that you remembered all those years ago.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” he said quietly. “But in the morning, I still want you to drink the coffee you like. And I still want to be the one who makes it.” You sat down at the table, picked up a mug, and took a sip. The taste was familiar, dear. You raised your head and looked at him. He sat down too, opposite you, and you drank coffee in silence, as if you’d never parted. You knew there would be conversations, explanations, maybe more arguments ahead. But now, this morning, you simply felt that he was still here—and that it was important.