The coffee cup - a Short Story

The Coffee Cup

// please be aware of a mention of suicide//

                        .......................................

A cold coffee cup on the window sill, seemingly forgotten by all but the sun. A third storey apartment, still, at the break of dawn. An unmade bed, with pillows strewn across the floor; a landline phone, hanging from it's place on the wall.
The hands of the man that had made the coffee had awoken two hours ago, in the pre dawn, blue light, and decided to watch the sunrise, forgetting the head ache from the night before. His emerald eyes, still adjusting to the morning light, gave no notice to the beer cans and bottles littering the floor, or the dress hanging on his bed post, he swore he hadn't seen before.
The kitchen was a mess, but his tired brain didn't care, he just felt the call of the sunrise, like a moth to a lamp. Click. The kettle begins to boil and a mug is retrieved from the bottom cupboard, red, bright as a poppy, surrounding a deep black. One, two, three cupboards are checked and finally coffee is found, one, two, three teaspoons of coffee are put in the mug. Pour water, stir twice, add milk, done. He walks over to the window ledge through which he begins to see the sun. Perfect in this moment, birds sing, cool air, good view, no thoughts.
One, two, three rings of the telephone before he picks up, "hello?". A conversation follows with a woman on the other end of the line. Accusations, excuses, proof, excuses, reminders, memories and apologies. Nothing. The dress on the bedpost sways in the breeze and the girl in the bed who shouldn't be there sighs in her sleep.
He went back to his coffee, numb to life, the mug a full red, like a frosted poppy, surrounding black. The birds made too much noise, the air was too cool, and he had too. Many. Thoughts.
He hurt the woman he loved and didn't remember doing it, but she was never going to forgive him, and good help him if  she didn't, because who was he without her? And oh god!
And in this moment he realised he had fallen from her grace... And the window.
One, two , three. Done.
A cold coffee cup sat on the window sill, seemingly forgotten by all but the sun. A third storey apartment, still, at the break of dawn. An unmade bed, with pillows strewn across the floor; a landline phone hanging from it's place on the wall.