The coffee percolates on the table, dripping black into Mama’s favorite mug. I dump the grounds in the trash, avoiding your eyes, and wrap my fingers around the cracked, cactus-covered porcelain.
“You have to talk to me,” you say.
I think about pouring gin into my coffee, and when I look up, I know you’ve read my mind.
You look sad, and I almost hate you for it. “Let her go, Waverly. It’s been months.”
I open my mouth, but Mama scowls at me from behind your shoulder.
“Let her go,” she says.
I sigh. If only dead meant dead.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: cactus, gin, percolate)