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Black, two sugars.

I know this.

Black, two sugars.

I can do this.

Black, two sugars.

I know I can. I can.

Black, two sugars.

The teaspoon clutched so desperately in my hand begins to wobble. My fingers tighten around the plastic spoon and I take a deep breath, praying that it doesn't spill. That would create a mess, and that would be bad. He hates messes.

The spoon steadies and I let myself breathe again. The sugar falls in, I stir it carefully. In the hallway, the clock chimes. It's 2:30.

I carry the coffee into the lounge room where he sits, stretched out in his favourite chair. Snoring.

I take it to him, and his eyes open. He's always been a light sleeper. I hand him the cup and he merely grunts. I stand back.

I don't know how he drinks it so fast without burning himself. It probably turns to ice in his mouth. It certainly wouldn't surprise me.

Suddenly, the cup is flung across the room. It hits the wall and shatters instantly, pieces crashing to the floor and embedding themselves in the carpet.

He says nothing, his eyes falling shut again. I don't know if he's going to sleep or not. I don't care.

I crouch down and pick up the shards, cupping them in my hand. I make no noise, even when a tiny piece cuts my thumb.

He's snoring again.

I carry what remains of the cup back into the kitchen. I dump the particles in the bin, making a mental note to buy more cups. We have only two left now.

I go to the sink and turn the taps on. We're out of hot water yet again.

The sink fills, I squirt detergent and it makes that stupid noise again.

I used to love the foamy bubbles. A few years ago, I used to wipe them through Sam's hair and she hated it. I used to laugh at her, because it looked so damn funny. I guess I used to do a lot of things.

I look at the clock. She should be home from school soon.

My hands plunge into the soapy water and the cut on my thumb stings.

Outside, the ocean is silent.

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