The Spill

The cup went.

You watched it go—

the arc of it,

the coffee brown in the air,

the way it hung

for just a moment

before it didn't.

Your hands were on the keyboard.

They stayed there.

An hour later

they came back with wet shoes,

said something about being clumsy,

and you said nothing.

Let them think

it was just

an accident,

just bad luck,

just the floor being wrong.

But you had seen it coming.

You had watched

the moment before impact,

had watched

the warning sail past,

had watched

and stayed still,

had stayed silent,

had let your hands

keep typing

like nothing

was about to fall

and you were just

the kind of person

who watches.

That's what sticks with you—

not the spill,

not the slip,

but your hands

on the keyboard,

still typing,

still working,

still pretending

that nothing

had happened,

that you hadn't seen it coming,

that you hadn't chosen

to let it fall.