Yield For Love

As the mobile phone vibrated quietly on the table, I stared absentmindedly into the foam atop my coffee. Tiny droplets clung to the walls of the bone china cup, tracing winding paths down its surface, leaving faint marks upon the wooden table beneath. That mark bore an eerie resemblance to the first time Mark Lynn held my hand—the red imprint his fingertip left upon my wrist—once mistaken for the proof of a beating heart, only later revealed as a meticulously drawn boundary. The foam had been freshly whipped at seven in the morning, but by now it had collapsed almost entirely. Within the delicate folds lay deep brown coffee stains, like crumpled old newspaper. I remember the first time I dated Mark Lynn seven years ago; he ordered a hot latte, its milk foam adorned with a crooked heart drawn in chocolate syrup. He said nervously, "I practiced for three days, yet still could not draw it well." That day, he wore a faded white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing a faint scar on his wrist. He said it was from climbing trees with his younger brother as children: "Frank was timid, and I had to protect him." I poked the milk foam with my fingertip; it fluttered faintly twice, like an aging heart, then sank completely. Sunlight slanted across the balcony, casting the window frame's shadow upon the floor, slowly drifting toward the coffee cup. That pace, like Mark Lynn's waning love for me, was silent yet unceasing, never once pausing. The pothos on the balcony was bought last year; at the time, Mark Lynn said, "Let's bring some life into the home." Now the vines have climbed the railing, though some leaves bear yellowed edges—much like these seven years I've endured. Seven years have passed.