Tretår

I always assumed we would have time for that coffee date. We would sit, basking in the late afternoon sunlight as it shafted through the windows, dust motes swirling warm in the glow, drinking cup after cup of coffee, and just talk. We would swap stories, laughing, perhaps even crying, most certainly delving deep into life.

We speak of time as if it is some object that can be lost and found, misplaced and then rediscovered, like an old birthday card or a pair of glasses. But it gently slipped away from us, taking our cups of coffee with it.

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