He improperly steeps my tea. His lips form into a distracted smile as he hands me the mug but I know, it’s a power play.
He must have a reason – this man wouldn’t intentionally fail such a task. He’s British, he knows how to steep tea. He wants to see if I’ll say something. Will I?
I haven’t seen this man, this former lover, this former teacher, this former idol, for almost a decade.
He fails to steep my tea. I put it on the table, unable to play his games.
I cannot stop staring at her knees. Skin as pale as I remember, looks as soft – crap, when did I put the tea bag in? It’s distracting; the slightest movement sends her scent my way. My hands shake as I hand her the tea – I cannot remember what type it is, let alone how long I let it steep.