Shante stared at her breakfast table, tears streaming down her face.
Breakfast had started innocently enough. Tea in her mug, oatmeal in a bowl, a magazine to read while she put spoonful after spoonful in her mouth.
But it all went wrong. She scooped two teaspoons of sugar in her tea, then lifted the milk jug. The bag was a little loose in the container, and flopped over as she tilted it. The milk slopped out, spilling on the table.
Shante dropped the jug on the table. The milk lay in a pool on the wood, white liquid in an abstract shape, meaningless and empty and full of weight.
The tears started, rolling down, and the kept falling. Shante lowered her head to her arms and wept. The milk stayed pooled where it lay, slowly drying.