Into the left shell of the ear, the small insistence of a metal spoon on the thin ceramic lips. Flesh lips are moving, too - a similar rotund motion, the incessant curl - but their words are meaningless against the porcelain drone of protesting china. I have no other words with which to give, to forgive: mine are wound up tight, twisted, bound against the tongue with a pressure so tight it seems to cut off the blood from the limb. My limbs are tingling. There's an equal tightness in the left arm, pulsing ever so slightly as to make itself known, and it is so present present absolutely there as to be even louder than the stainless steel complaint. I am a hum, an endless murmur, a breeze barely built into the frame of skin, just waiting to sweep the cup from the firm dismissal of tabletop, from the unrelenting harangue of tongue: crash, bang, the shutter snap of heart, a moment, once captured, preserved in the flicker of time just here, just now, in the clip of surprise in the aperture of eyelids.