Fault. Not a good word. Not a pleasant word. It conjures up the idea of blame. If someone’s at fault, someone’s to blame. The same thing.

Plus it makes me think of faulty. Broken. Useless.

Like you, really. It’s your fault. You’re faulty. It’s not me, it’s you.

I can tell you now I never appreciated the blank stares, the monosyllables, the selfishness, the way you sit there every morning drinking your coffee and reading your paper, or tapping away at your laptop, or doing whatever it is you do with your phone. Facebook, maybe? Or are you on Twitter? I’ll have to find you. Sadly this is the only way I will get to know you. You’re so closed in. So distant.

I sometimes wonder whether you even see me at all. Whether I’m even here. Sometimes. Although the other morning (Wednesday, actually, at 8.12) you glanced at me, and you smiled. So that was a good day. It made all the other crap bounce off me. I wish you’d do it more often.

I wish we spoke more. I miss your voice. I can hear you, making deals and plotting plans on your mobile… Why can’t you plan with me? Am I not good enough for you?

And now, after all this time, the few words you speak to me are always the same. “Grande cappuccino to drink in, please.”
And mine are the same; “Chocolate on top?” And I know you’ll say yes.

I know you so well.

But it’s your fault now; you missed your chance.