Kitchen putterings. Kettle whistlings. Pouring just as the water boils, the water that is fresh, filtered. Pouring over the loose tea leaves, swirling them up in the cobalt blue mug, watching them catch the light. Waiting, just staring into the hot water, the tea leaves, not reading the future, just waiting. One minute, two minutes, three and then pouring the tea into a serviceable white mug, straining it carefully, and not a leaf falls through, so carefully is it done. Then poured back again, dark unleafy tea, and one sugar and a little milk and the silver spoon that Patrick found for fifty cents at a city rummage sale and brought home and polished until it shone. And the tea is ready, silver stirring in the deep cobalt blue, and carried over to the table, to the computer humming, whirring, the keys clicking clicking clicking and ah,