Thanks to jnicweb for beta reading!


He drinks tea, strong black tea with some lemon and a tiny bit of sugar. His tea mug is completely usual, a bought one, white with an emblem on it. The colourful picture is such a usual sight that he doesn't even notice it.

She drinks coffee, strongly flavoured coffee with milk, sugar, and sometimes cinnamon. Her mug is very exotic - light brown, all covered with multicoloured strips, dashes, and dots, slightly smaller than a usual mug. Under the bottom, there is lettering with her name and a date. It indicates a hand-made present. She twiddles with her mug every morning and looks at it carefully. The pattern dances before her eyes and always shows the details that haven't been noticed yet.

His way of making tea is simple and fast. He takes a little teapot, rinses it out, and pours some tea leaves and hot water in it. While tea is brewing, it's high time to slice some lemon and to measure sugar. And to admire her work. Because her way of making coffee is always a performance.

She puts a little old gezve on the cooker, turns the burner on and pours a cup of water. It's wrong maybe, she would better pour the water in the gezve before putting it on fire. But the mistake became a habit that is a part of the ceremony now. A lump of sugar sinks in the water, gurgling. While the water is warming up, she puts coffee beans into the coffee mill and turns the handle with habitual smooth motions. The beans crackle softly and fill the air with their aroma. When she pours ground coffee to the gezve, not a pinch spills out, only some bits may be left on the thin edges. Then she adds cinnamon and, equipped with a special coffee spoon, waits until the bead is ready to overflow. But her coffee never happens to boil over.

The burner turns off with a click, she turns and smiles proudly, and he answers with a tender smile. Then he pours his tea, and she pours her coffee, and he can't keep from joking that "the potion is ready". And she says, "Not yet, pass me milk, please."

They don't care much about their food for the breakfast. Porridge, toasts, sandwiches or cookies – everything is divided in half, and they may confuse each other's portions or favourite jams but not mugs. This is your potion, and that's mine. And there is no sense in mixing coffee with tea. Until the very end. Because, when breakfast is over, they always kiss. The tea-coffee kiss ends the morning, then the affairs begin, and they know it very well and don't hurry. And, even if they sometimes ask "How can you drink that?", even if only joking, all this is forgotten for a moment, and the world outside of the warm kitchen filled with pleasant flavours fades or just stops existing.

"Freeze for a minute. I'll take a photo of you."

Mary can only guess what about her may be special right now but obeys and waits until John digs up the nearest photo-taking engine. The gotten photo is not seen well on the small screen, but he kisses her in the forehead and insures: "Now you look just like a sunny hedgehog".

"If I do, then you are… a moony porcupine?

"Is it a hint for me to comb my hair?"

They laugh.

"It is nothing."

They look in each other's eyes and say at the same time, "I love you".

And they know that, after such a morning, the day will be a lucky one.