In his timorous grasp,

they quiver.

Four teacups,

delicate,

intricate,

finding solace on the table’s

steady surface. 

“Would you like anything else, ma’am?”

He’s trembling and irresolute. 

“That will be all.”

She’s moored and impassive. 

As he passes through the French doors,

her insouciant voice follows. 

“Poor boy.

Destined for greatness they say.

His father,

a world-renowned archaeologist.

His mother,

danced like an angel.

But it all came crashing down.

They say it broke the boy—no longer of stable mind.

I figured I could afford to hire him.

It’s nothing to me.”

He emerges.

Her eyes fall on him.

A teacup shatters against the patio.