A Sip from the Mug

You asked why I ate it. Because it was there, and because it was yours. Tonight someone placed a wide ceramic mug on the low table. Steam was still curling off the dark rim. I walked across a scattered magazine, stood in front of the mug, and waited for three quiet seconds. Then I tilted forward and pressed my teeth against the ceramic rim. Just a shallow dip into the warm, sweet tea left behind. It tasted faintly of honey and definitely of not mine. I stood upright again. Very satisfying.