At some point in life you start buying glasses. Round and tall, squat and long-stemmed, wine glasses, cocktail glasses, glasses for everyday use. Pretty soon you have a whole shelf full of them, in all shapes and sizes - a small menagerie of glassware all sitting there unused because you live alone and drink straight from the bottle mostly, or just use the one glass that's always out.
Opening the cupboard tonight, trying to decide which glass to serve you water in, I am aware of an obscure pride in my kitchen, as though its clean, well-lit surfaces were proof of an achievement I cannot name.
How did we end up this way, you and I, so polite, so middle-aged, drinking tap-water, making conversation? And is it foolish of me to think that there is an intimacy to this: the glass naked, transparent, passed from one hand to the other, the fingers not touching but joined, for a moment, in a shared compact, the gift speechless, filled with light?
I have not filled the glass to the brim. I was afraid of spilling it, afraid it would be too much. I watch you sip the water and wonder, but will not ask, how long you'll stay this time. When you put the glass down I ask if you want some more, though I can see the glass is half full. You say no, it's fine. I say are you sure, it's no trouble. You say I know. After that we sit in silence.