This Ain’t as Hot as It Used to Be

She cupped the cup, breathing in the steam. He watched her from the other side of the table, his hands shaking a bit. He wouldn’t show her. He waited. She spoke.
“This ain’t as hot as it used to be,” she murmured, taking a deep sip.
He wondered if she meant the coffee or them. As always, she spoke in cyclical rhythms. It was the life of a poet. Or the curse of one in love with a poet. He merely nodded, his hands shaking again. It wasn’t just that it was cold. It was her. Always her.
Now, she closed her eyes, leaning back in the chair. He stared at her face, in love again with the thoughts behind the mask. She was just so deep. Unfathomable. A true poet.
“Don’t you think?” she asked suddenly, and his hands began to tremble. There was no way for him to answer her without giving away the fact that he did not know what she was talking about.
“Eh,” he began, hoping the muse would take over his side of the table for a second.
It didn’t.