The Cost of Doing Business

You laughed when the ceramic hit the floor.

'It’s just a mug,' you said,

reaching for the dustpan like you were doing me a favor.

I said it was fine. I said I didn't even like the color.

But now I’m in the kitchen alone,

holding the broken handle.

The edge is sharp and unglazed,

digging a red crescent into my palm.

I’m smiling at your joke through the doorway

because I’m too pathetic to ask you to leave.