Note: It's been quite a while, and it's time for a change. I have some new ideas I'm playing around with. Hopefully, they won't be too disjointed from the other pieces for people to grasp.
Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, and been waiting patiently! I appreciate the support, and I'm sorry I haven't been able to contribute anything until now. Hope you enjoy the next three drabbles!
Theme: #85 - She
Genre: Romance/General
Version: Crystal Tokyo/AU
Rating: PG
...
Quiet Monday Mornings
...
She's methodical to the core. The teakettle gets refilled, the burner is turned on, and then she prepares the cups. Always two cups, one with sugar and one without. He watches her carefully measure teaspoons. She makes it look like brain surgery, discarding tiny, rejected flecks of sugar back into the bowl, as if one extra ounce will give him an early heart attack or onset of diabetes.
He lets her do it, though. He likes watching her method, because he is anything but exact and organized. He leaves his boxers hanging half out of the hamper, and washes dishes when there is only three plastic cups in the machine. Following her movements, timed and rhythmic, is refreshing. It's something that will probably never stop being a novelty.
He won't let it.
She fills the cups up to the brim with boiling water. Each one gets six stirs before they're deemed ready to be savored. That's the end of her routine. The next few moments are up to him.
That's part of his routine.
He smiles at her over the rim of his mug, face half in shadow. Everything about him is sharp angles and wild hair in the early morning light, filtering lazily through the thin, white curtains above the stove. She watches the white flash of his teeth disappear as he sips the steaming tea. She won't touch her own until it is cooler, and he doesn't think that's fair. It's like eating steak while everyone else is still waiting for their salads.
The table groans in protest as he leans forward and she leans back, trying to keep her tea from sloshing messily onto the dark wood as his palms slide in front of her, into her personal space. It's too early for words, but that doesn't mean she doesn't try. Her mouth open and closes, questioning silently until he has to manually interrupt her, his bottom teeth grazing her upper lip.
He tastes like Sweet 'n Low and bitter Earl Grey, and maybe just a hint of last night's cigar that he got from a party she had told him not to go to. He had, of course, but she decides she doesn't really care all that much when his tongue is running over the roof of her mouth.
Slowly, he pulls back, until all that's left is a faint, sugary aftertaste and a shy stare under downcast lashes.