She set the pot on the stove, turned. That new precision in her movements startled him. She smiled, but only with her mouth. "Would you like some?" she asked, meaning the tea, maybe, or maybe not at all. He nodded, and she fetched two cups, thick-walled porcelain, mismatched from different sets. She poured with the practiced, meditative grace of someone who had poured a hundred thousand times and would pour a hundred thousand more.

The cup slid across the counter towards him, stopping in the shallow pool of sunlight. When he reached for it, her hand grazed his, cool and dry, then pulled away. Neither spoke. The tea cooled between them. He sipped out of necessity, not desire, the tannins harsh on his tongue.