“How the hell can you spoil the taste of those heavenly biscuits with that warm lemon water?” she’d demand, hands on her hips, eyes gleaming with mock indignation.
Sunday mornings used to be their ritual. The scent of freshly brewed green tea mingled with the warmth of oat cookies, and Dean Martin crooning softly on the vinyl, his voice blending seamlessly with her relentless complaints.
He never argued. He never defended his tea. He simply took a slow, deliberate sip, letting her words wash over him like the softest drizzle on a spring morning. He would bite into an oat cookie—her favourite—and pretend to ignore her. And that, he had discovered, only made her go on and on.
It was a dance they had perfected over the years, her rants and his silence composing a melody of familiarity, of love wrapped in the guise of playful exasperation. She was fire—fierce, passionate, relentless. He was water—calm, steady, patient. And together, they had created a storm he had come to cherish.
Sometimes, in the height of her fury, she’d threaten to throw his cup away. “One day, I swear, I’ll do it.” And she would try—hand reaching out, fingers grazing the warm ceramic. But he was always quicker, pulling it away just in time, laughing softly at the frustration dancing across her face. She never meant it, of course. Just as he never truly ignored her.
It was their kind of love. Loud in her words, quiet in his silences.
But this morning, the house was silent.
The record player had been still for four years. Jim Reeves did not sing here anymore.
The absence pressed against him like a weight he could never put down. He still made the tea, still placed the oat cookies on the plate, still sat in the same chair by the window. Old habits are hard to break, especially the ones wrapped in love.
As he lifted the cup, a familiar warmth curled around his fingers. A sip, a memory. A quiet laugh, an echo of the past. And then, as if the universe had conspired against his fragile moment of peace, his hand wavered. The cup tilted, the amber liquid spilling onto his track pants.
The sudden heat jolted him back—back to this room, this morning, this present where her voice no longer filled the spaces between sips of tea.
He turned around.
No one was there.
Of course, no one was there.
He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, set the cup down carefully, and stared out of the window, seeing nothing, seeing everything.
The cold December morning stretched endlessly before him.
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