Honey-colored sunlight spilled into the room, dripping off every surface. The room, small, barely larger than the small glass-topped table and simple chairs that surrounded it.
She sat opposite, an entertainment magazine -- a weekly -- in one hand. Neglected nearby, a cup of coffee sat quietly steaming, its aroma filling the room. She twisted a loose strand of hair. A small vase of flowers sat atop the table, gently swayed by the ceiling fan. Underneath the table, he regarded her flower-print skirt, her long legs, crossed at the knees, her bare foot bobbing lazily. He leaned against the door frame.
She sensed him standing there, looked up and beamed. He tussled his hair as they wished each other a good morning. She indicated coffee, he declined.
Deep breath, he repeated the request from the night before. She politely demured.
He tried again. Now the magazine was on the table but the answer hadn't changed.
He suggested she hold back some body of water, using a name to God had originally bestowed on her gender. The minute it escaped his lips, he knew it shouldn't have.
He saw time cease. Foot, no longer bobbing. Finger, frozen, mid-twirl. Magazine no longer rustled by the ceiling fan. The coffee's steam hung over the mug like a small rain cloud.
After an eternity, she slowly took a breath, long, deep, inhaling every last molecule of air from the room.
Calmly, the fact was restated and coffee resuggested.
Not two, but four was the number of wheels on the vehicles they'd be shopping for that morning.
(I am once again cheating - I did not even set a timer for this one. It had been rattling around in my head since Patty asked me to write more and I began to think why I don't write more - that I'm scared of dialogue, that my writing of interactions may be as bad as my own personal experience.)