She hates fish.
She always tells him that she is sick and tired of rice and fish, and how she would prefer sauerkraut and sausages.
In actuality, it's the lidless, soulless eyes that enrage her, that make her insides revolt. Eyes so glassy, so devoid of life and emotion it's like watching a doll, and the mouth always hanging open.
Reminds her so much of being hanged.
But it's easier for her to turn this around, to blame him for his choice of food, to cast aspersions for his heritage.
And in doing so, to try and make herself forget a part of her; the part that still cries at nights, that is afraid of dolls and fishes, the part that gives him a shy, quiet smile whenever he's not looking.
The part of her that is the same as his whole self.
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She loves tea.
She drink the cup in front of her, glad that she stopped in the small café to ask for it, the warmth of it already spreading to cover her like a blanket against the coldness from the rain that decided to drop by.
She loves the taste of dark brown leaves, of dark blue berries; she loves the earthly scent of the cinnamon, the crisp, clear smell of spearmint, the sugary sweet after taste of milk and honey and sugar.
Bitter and sweet and sugary and spicy.
And when she walks back home she catches a glimpse of his retreating form. So brief she wonders if it was wishful thinking.
Until the bittersweet smell of the cup with green tea he left for her tells her it wasn't.