Tea blended with lies, and a bitterness hanging in the room that does not come from the cup. Then the sweetness arrives and does its work: leather, caramel, immortelle: The everlasting flower picked, dried, holding its colour for years. And on the table, roses withered, perhaps, from the hope of a love that was never in the room. And under everything, sandalwood. The black tea, the upholstery, the wood, the flowers he brought. A sigh.
