He did not learn to fill his own cup. Her cup was always full; of her tastes and talents that were exquisite and rare. He believed they were a perfect match, for he could lean into her cup and take a warm sip of abundance he had rarely experienced. He loved her for the force with which she loved herself. Brute, unabashed, unworldly to a great extent, not needing anyone to fill her cup. Not even him. Yet in his fear of losing her, he filled her cup, over and over, and watched it simply overflow. A wasted concoction of her pride and his angst. If only he had learned to fill his own cup, he might have discovered he too had tastes and talents.