A Heavy Mug

My fingers finally unclenched, stiff as old twigs. The first thing I noticed wasn't some grand light, just the cold sting of glass against my palm. I gave my arm a slow, stubborn tug, lowering that foaming glass mug an inch toward the wooden tabletop. It let out a solid clunk. Good. My elbows bend, and the brew is chilly. Now, if the world could just stay quiet and let an old fellow sit in peace, that would be plenty.