Their first argument ended when the pen ran out. Who knew what might have been said after that decisive but internally uncontrollable moment? All they knew is that things had been left unwritten, and that it couldn't go on that way. She poured herself a bowl of cornflakes, didn't stop when they started flowing over the sides of the white porcelaine because she loved the sound. In a house where silence reigned superior, in a relationship in which the dots over the 'i's and the crosses on the 't's spoke louder than the clearing of the throat, she cherished the sound of breakfast cereal flowing into a bowl more than the blue washed-out letters on the lined page he held in his hands. She couldn't stop pouring, and didn't until he wrote 'stop now' with a new pen.