a meme

	She frantically cleaned the porcelain cups, as if a single microbe on them would be enough to end her uneventful life. Nearby, the table was ready. A red towel hid the plastic that looked like wood (and it was fairly convincing until you touched it’s dead surface).On top of it, two empty mugs on top of coasters.
	The rotating movements of her head almost matched those of her hand; she would look every other second at the clock, waiting for the…Oh, there it is. The light knocks on the door, these three knocks was his trademark. Large steps, she treaded carefully, and gently turned the doorknob.
	He was visible through the sliver. His beard was beginning to become grizzled, and his belly already protruded, expanding against his shirt. The real mystery in this short story is how the buttons didn’t pop out when he stretched himself. He bent over to kiss her forehead, instead touching a hairlock with his lips. Grabbing his hand, she made it all the way back, leaving him on the shore as she came back to the kitchen.
	The entire place was fuming with the vapors released by the boiling water used for cleaning, coffee and cooking.
	He was looking at an amateur painting when she came inside the room with everything on a platter. A quick nod and he sat down, herself serving him coffee and cake before following her own command. They spoke in whispers.
	He would look away from her only when he drank coffee. He would turn his head up and close his eyes, making a slurping sound. At these moments she would look at him, at his hands, no, at what he held by its weakest link: the mug. It was painted with a very close imitation of La Danse, by Matisse. Not a single important detail was left. Her coffee went cold.
	 Having finished his snack, he stood up, so did she. This time she kissed his lips, almost falling over him. He tried to smile but couldn’t, as if that would make more sound than their barely audible whispers and that would wake up her husband.