Tea, My Dear
Monsters in Haymitch's head are roaring in the morning light; the remants of a heavy night before. He glowers as a scarlet clad Effie Trinket, chipper as ever, busies herself with her ritual of making morning tea.
"Can't you do that any quieter, woman?"
She smirks through scarlet lips and slides a rose-patterned teacup to him. He gulps a big mouthful of the brew and instantly starts choking on the bitter liquid. Unperturbed, she hands him a napkin.
"What the hell is this muck?"
"It is tea, my dear."
Haymitch glances at the cup cradled in her grasp. It is as dark as his – no milk, no sugar. Why the hell does little miss chocolate covered strawberries, all sugar and spice, drink this stuff?
She sips, pinky finger extended like a lady, and gives him a tight little smile.
"Some things are just better bitter, would you not agree?"
