There it came and went. A week of drinking tea. Maybe a week and a half. She thought about it, with an urge to brag. I am not a coffee drinker anymore, she would lie to herself, putting the kettle on. Then she would say “kettle” to no one but the boiling water, with an accent.
She uses the very same kettle on a Wednesday morning to rinse bird shit off the deck. She refills the bird feeder, which isn’t a bird feeder at all but a pot laying on its side. The blue jays are greedy. The Tufted Titmice arrive in threes or watch from the Moringa tree. The wrens rarely touch anything, but they hop in and out of sight. A female cardinal is the most striking, and she says, “Hello, darling girl. How are you today?” to a tilted face and a bright orange beak.
At night, he brings up a blanket fresh out of the dryer and lays it over her and her dog, who are quite absurdly spooning, as it were. The feeling of the blanket, heavy and hot to the touch, is unlike any other. To be trapped in warmth and unconditional love in a tree house surrounded by nature. Don’t you believe her when she says it is the best thing?
The tea is ready. Matcha. A serving of greens, she tells him.
Thoughts?