Not all full-mooned nights are created equal. some, a glimpse of light like the globe of a streetlamp so distant his index finger could block it. a decisive poke at the heavens as he stood. a silly pause in his late-night pace.
but that evening, another hand took his moon. below, his cradled the rough clay of a mug made for someone else’s palms. it was taken fully if just for a moment. a brief ellipse. a midnight sip. and, sure as he was of the inevitability, his breath held for its return.