The silence of coffee

 He awoke one monday morning, two bedrooms, he sipped his coffee and wondered which bed to go back to. More responsibility perhaps. 
It started out as a fantasy then developed into a routine.
I asked him how do you juggle it?
He gave me the cliche gold- I do it with my whole heart.
Was he just trying to build it all up?
Or had he made space for more than one inside his heart?

Downstairs both were eating breakfast.
They hadn't adapted to each other yet. Even after six months of living together.
They didn't hate each other, and infact sharing silence despite it's uncertainty had become familiar.
It was the man of the house who would enthusiastically expatiate.
Is this what he really wanted two sets of eyes on him, two hearts warmed by one man?
Their silence was like a slow satisfying digestion, as if you'd just eaten, not too much, enough. this would all contrast to life outside the home, were they would live separate social lives.
Among mouthfuls they fidgeted. he was doing his gratitude prayer in his head to not disturb the awkward but beautiful silence.

Their discomfort could be harvested. Not to indulge in. But to spin from it's fluffy frustrating shape into blankets to warm both of them. Taking cues from him, now more centered and calmer than he had ever been. More out of necessity, constantly correcting himself before he opened his mouth to speak.

God always fills voids so news would spill out that morning as tentative words broke silence.
-coffee?