Lukewarm.

I'll set out in search of something between introduction and goodbye, safety purposes. You never offer a "Hello, my name is...", so you needn't live with the knowledge of a direct moment of beginning and end. Only that there was exchange of politics and ideaology, spaghetti and umbrellas along the way. And when ways part, you can't regret. Nothing concrete in the first place. All that is left is a treacherous stack of restaurant receipts and a dingy umbrella in the corner, a pity gift from that wheezing great-aunt.

The thunder stopped about an hour ago, rain still trickles from the gutter like a weeping child. Wind-blown leaves pasted to the windows from the outside, crying for sanctuary. Eerie gutteral noises from the refrigerator in the corner. Grey daylight consumes empty space, accessible rooms with ghosts. Skin is skin no longer. A maiden's paper veil. Heartbeats ticking like old machinery. Untouched breakfast. I can't say I mind the company.

The last sip of coffee settles, lukewarm and motionless. As am I.