The Argument Finished Before I Did

I had made a drink I wasn't going to finish.

The ice cube sat on the counter

while I turned back into the room—

something about the way I always,

something about the way I never,

the usual accounting

delivered with the patience

of someone who has rehearsed this

alone, in the car.

I glanced at the cube twice.

Once when it still had corners.

Once when it was mostly water.

By the time the room went quiet

there was a ring on the laminate—

cold when I touched it,

the shape of nothing in particular,

the kind of thing you wipe up

without really deciding to.

I had watched the whole thing happen.

I didn't say anything about any of it.