Most people have a shelf of cups. Henry has a wall. They hang from hooks on a mounted rack, five across and seven down. Some of them are patterned and some of them are plain and no two are the same. “I’m not sure you have enough mugs.” Henry casts her a sidelong look. He has a way of almost smiling. It’s like light behind a curtain, the edge of the sun behind clouds, more a promise than an actual thing, but the warmth shines through. “It was a thing, in my family,” he says. “No matter who came over for coffee, they could choose the one that spoke to them that day.”
I absolutely love this.
