The cup sat there. The tea inside that has yet to be sipped taunted me. It sat there steaming, the smoke rising. It reminded me of him.

  A memory flashed behind my eyes. Nights after concerts where we sat backstage on one of the large fluffy couches. A cigarette between his lips as he opened a bottle of Jameson – his favorite whiskey. He took a sip, swallowed, and took a puff from his cigarette.

  The smoke rose above his face and dissipated into the ceiling. I hated the habit for him but couldn’t deny how beautiful he looked with the stick of cancer between his lips.

  The memory faded, and my eyes went into focus again. The tea had cooled by now, yet a knock had not come to my door. I sighed and crossed my legs. I knew he might never come. It’d been twenty years since we’d seen each other. My hair had grayed slightly, and I wasn’t the desirable person he wanted before.

  As my hope slowly dissolved, the phone rang. I walked through the large house to the wall in the kitchen, picked it up and answered.

  “Hello?”
  “Hi. This is the emergency contact number that was in Mr. Taylor’s phone?”
  “Oh…” I was his contact? I thought.
  “He’s been killed in a hit and run. We’re extremely sorry for your loss.”
  So, it wasn’t the nicotine that killed him.