She’s late. The kettle whistles at her entrance.
Eyes bouncing off her gaze like mismatched magnets,
he fills her cup with sweaty, shaking hands;
darjeeling splashes on the tablecloth,
staining with amber the bright blocks of gingham.
He sits and sips, makes awkward conversation:
have the white orchids bloomed? how are her sisters?
They have; they’re well. She glances out the window
just as a passing cloud darkens the sun
and throws the kitchen into momentary
shadow, like a too-wide smile that falters.
She drains her cup. The milky, opaque tea
reveals a ring. She lifts her eyes. He frowns.
A bitter taste—? His teacup falls and shatters.