The Mug in the Sink

Every morning, Arthur woke before the kettle did.

Not because he needed to. Not because anyone asked him to. It was simply the way his body had learned the rhythm of the house; the creak of old floorboards, the cold air at the bottom of the stairs, the familiar ache in his knees that reminded him he was still here.

He padded into the kitchen in his slippers, careful not to wake Margaret.

The kitchen was dim, lit only by the small lamp by the window. The world outside was still half-asleep, the garden pale with frost. Arthur stood for a moment, looking at the kettle like it was an old friend.

He filled it, set it down, and turned it on.

Then he opened the cupboard and reached for the mugs.

There were plenty, technically. A whole shelf of them. Mugs from charity shops, birthdays and holidays that had become less about the place and more about the fact they’d gone together.

But he always reached for the same two.

Margaret’s was a little chipped near the handle. The pattern had faded over time — once bright blue flowers, now more like gentle shadows. She’d had it since the year their first grandchild was born, and no matter how many times Arthur suggested replacing it, Margaret had always said the same thing.

“It still holds tea, doesn’t it?”

Arthur placed it on the counter.

His own mug was plain, sturdy, and too large for any sensible person. Margaret had bought it for him years ago with a little grin, because he always made his tea “the way a man who’s been through a war would.”

Arthur didn’t argue with that. He set his mug beside hers.

Two mugs.

Side by side.

Like they had been for decades.

Margaret came into the kitchen about ten minutes later, hair a soft halo of silver and her dressing gown tied loosely at the waist.

She paused in the doorway, watching him. Arthur didn’t turn.

He didn’t need to.

“You’re up early,” she said. Arthur lifted the teabag box. “You were going to be.”

Margaret shuffled over and kissed the side of his head, not quite on his cheek, not quite in his hair. A kiss placed with the ease of habit, like putting a book back on its shelf.

Arthur’s hand paused for just a second. Then he carried on making tea. Margaret sat at the table and rubbed her hands together.

“It’s cold,” she announced. Arthur glanced at her. “It’s February.” Margaret nodded firmly. “Still.”

Arthur opened the bread bin and pulled out the last two slices of their favourite loaf — the seeded one, the one Margaret insisted tasted “more expensive.”

He toasted and buttered them. He cut Margaret’s diagonally. He cut his straight. They had never discussed why. It was just the way it was.

Margaret watched him place her plate down.

“You cut mine like I’m five,” she said. Arthur sat down. “You act like you’re five.” Margaret gasped. “Arthur!” Arthur took a sip of tea. “Well. You do.” Margaret narrowed her eyes at him.

Arthur stared back, entirely unbothered. Margaret pointed her knife at him. “I am a dignified woman.” Arthur nodded. “Yes. That’s why you once tried to fight a seagull for your chips.”

Margaret paused. Arthur raised his eyebrows. Margaret cleared her throat. “That seagull started it.” Arthur smiled into his mug. Margaret ate her toast with an air of wounded pride.

Arthur read the newspaper. Margaret did the crossword, tongue peeking out slightly as she wrote. Arthur had always found that ridiculous. And, for reasons he couldn’t explain, he’d always liked it. After a few minutes, Margaret tapped her pencil on the table.

“Arthur.” Arthur lowered his paper. “Yes?”

Margaret frowned at the crossword. “Four letters. ‘Annoying man who leaves his socks on the floor.’” Arthur stared at her. Margaret looked up, innocent. Arthur’s mouth twitched. “That’s not a crossword clue.” Margaret tapped the pencil again. “It should be.”

Arthur returned to his paper. “The answer is ‘husb’.” Margaret blinked. “That’s not a word.” Arthur nodded. “It is in this house.” Margaret laughed, quietly. Arthur pretended not to notice.

The kettle clicked off again. Arthur stood to refill their mugs. Margaret didn’t look up from her crossword. “Arthur,” she said, “don’t put too much milk in mine.” Arthur paused. “I never do.” Margaret lifted her eyes. “You did yesterday.” Arthur frowned. “I did not.” Margaret tapped her pencil. “You did.” Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Are you accusing me of sabotaging your tea?” Margaret shrugged. “I’m accusing you of being a menace.”

Arthur poured her tea with exaggerated care. Margaret watched him like a judge at a baking competition. He handed it to her. She took a sip. She nodded once. “Acceptable,” she said.

Arthur sat down again. “High praise.” Margaret smiled down at her crossword. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Arthur snorted.

Later, they went into town.

They didn’t go often anymore. Not like they used to. Arthur’s knees complained and Margaret’s hip wasn’t what it had been, and the world had started to feel louder than it needed to be.

But they liked the little market on Saturdays. They liked the greengrocer who still called Margaret “darling” and Arthur “chief.” They liked the bakery that smelled like warm bread and sugar.

They walked slowly, Arthur’s hand hovering near Margaret’s elbow, not holding her, not guiding her, just ready. Margaret noticed, of course.

She always did.

She didn’t comment. She simply leaned a fraction closer. At the flower stall, Margaret picked up a bunch of daffodils and sniffed them. “They’re early,” she said. Arthur shrugged. “They don’t care what month it is.”

Margaret turned the bunch in her hands. “Do we need them?” Arthur looked at her. Margaret looked back, expression neutral and innocent. Arthur sighed. “No.” Margaret smiled. “Then we’ll take them.”

Arthur paid without complaint. He carried them home like they were something precious. Margaret walked beside him, pleased with herself.

Halfway home, Margaret said, casually, “You know, some men buy flowers for Valentine’s Day.” Arthur glanced at her. “Some men also juggle chainsaws.” Margaret hummed. “I’d like to see you try.” Arthur scoffed. “I’d be brilliant.” Margaret looked at him. “You tripped over the cat last week.” Arthur frowned. “The cat moved.” Margaret nodded seriously. “Yes. In her own home. How dare she.”

Arthur laughed.

Margaret smiled like she’d won something.

That evening, Arthur washed up and Margaret dried.

It had been their routine for as long as Arthur could remember. Not because Margaret couldn’t wash up, and not because Arthur couldn’t dry but because it meant they stood close together, shoulder to shoulder, moving in the same rhythm.

Margaret handed him plates. Arthur washed them. Margaret dried them and put them away. They didn’t talk much. But they didn’t need to.

Arthur washed Margaret’s mug carefully. He always did. He rinsed it. He wiped it with his thumb. He set it in the drying rack. Margaret watched him.

“You treat that mug better than you treat me,” she said. Arthur didn’t look up. “It complains less.” Margaret made a noise of outrage. Arthur turned his head, smiling. Margaret smiled back.

Then she reached out, took his wet hands, and pulled him towards her. Arthur stumbled slightly, surprised. Margaret leaned up and kissed him.

Not quickly. Not dramatically.

Not the kind of kiss people wrote poems about. Just a kiss that said: Here. Still. Always. Arthur kissed her back, slow and steady.

Margaret’s hands were warm. Arthur’s hands were wrinkled. They fit anyway.

When they pulled apart, Margaret rested her forehead against his.

“Arthur,” she murmured.

“Yes?”

Margaret’s eyes softened. “Thank you.”

Arthur frowned. “For what?”

Margaret gestured vaguely at the kitchen. The tea. The flowers in the vase. The mug. The way he’d carried her elbow in town. The toast cut diagonally. The quiet. The years.

“For everything,” she said. Arthur stared at her for a long moment. Then he cleared his throat, like he was annoyed by how his chest felt. “Well,” he said gruffly, “someone has to keep you in line.”

Margaret smiled.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I don’t fancy doing any of this with anyone else.”

Arthur blinked.

His eyes stung a little, which was ridiculous. He was a grown man. A grandfather. A man who’d fixed roofs and built sheds and carried heavy things and survived winters that felt like they lasted forever.

But Margaret’s voice had done something to him. Like it always had. Arthur swallowed. Then he nodded once, as if agreeing to something obvious. “Me neither,” he said.

Margaret kissed him again, softer this time. Then she turned back to the dishes. Arthur looked down at the sink.

There was one mug left inside it.

Margaret’s mug.

Arthur reached for it.

And he washed it like it was something precious.

The end.