Tea

'Tea?' I ask her, 'You make it.'

She gets up fidgeting. I hear her scrambling in kitchen. I know she has already found tea-leaves and sugar in my tiny kitchen. Yet she is opening fridge and closing it, probably in search of ginger. She has poured water in pot thoughtfully, almost measuring every drop. A hand on her hip and forefinger and thumb pressing her nosebridge, typically what she does when she is in deep thought, she takes the pot off heat and throws some water away.

I smile a little from behind curtain.

She measures two teaspoons of tea leaves and I think her fingers shake a little with anxiety as she adds sugar. A little piece of ginger as an afterthought,  she gives a stir carefully as if she is discovering some new chemical phenomenon.

Five minutes, she doesn't come back to the bedroom. She is still staring at teapot, inhaling deep.

She finally comes with two cups and hands me one, I can always feel her eyes on me- expectant, almost hopeful.

I take a sip and say, 'not bad.'

Her gaze drops a little as she slumps lazily in bed and kisses me.

I smile a little from behind my cup.

I swear to God I have not seen anyone look so beautiful making tea, as she does-
ever since I told her how my mother made the best tea in the world.

'I love you.' I hug her from behind as she walks back to kitchen with empty cups in hands.
She smiles.
'Really!' I say.
Her mind is still on tea.