and there are a lot of sounds in the room. sounds of the people outside and of coats rustling and the water boiling before he pours it into the diffuser, pearly white porcelain. and they both wait and consider and he watches him pour it from ninety to forty-five to something less than. and as he hears the trickle of water fall upon his saucer he hears him say something between “I’m Sorry” and “That Is Just How It Is”. and does that not make him want to throw the saucer or pour the boiling water on the both of them? does it not make him shake and sneer with his teeth and twitch toward excusing himself to the bathroom so he can sob in peace over the toilet, a similar, more shameful porcelain? does the hurt not boil within him like the water for their tea in the kettle? a fucking tradition, his boring life. this vs. then and the hole that never leaves you, and some days he’s terrified he’s pretending it does, that it has, and that everyone is happy he’s finally willing to play along. but it turns out that something he said between “I’m Sorry” and “That Is Just How It Is” was a benign comment on the wonderful aroma of the infusion, and he supposes that those words don’t have to be the thing that breaks him.