Cara set the kettle on the burner, idly speaking as she started to prepare two mugs, “Nice to talk to someone who appreciates a proper cuppa as much as I do.” She paused, offering him a small smile before explaining, “My dad was British. He raised me and my sister to drink tea and root for Liverpool.” She started to search for some sugar before deciding to hell with it, rummaging around in her duffel bag instead. She retrieved a small plastic baggie full of little sugar packets poached from diners. “Hard to have a good cup when you’re on the road, though - haven’t had one made with a kettle in years.”
And she’d missed it. She missed the process of it all. Filling the kettle, hearing its whistle. Steeping the bag until the tea was nice and dark, just the way that she and her dad liked it. Adding that tiny pinch of sugar at the end. All of it transported her back in time, back home. To mornings with the whole family, or evenings in her dad’s study while he graded papers and she did homework.
Cara was brought out of her thoughts by William’s question, shaking her head, “Odds are slim to none. In the times that I’ve used them, I’ve never bumped into anyone else - coming or going. Honestly, I wouldn’t even think that anyone else used them if they weren’t so well-stocked.”
Normally when someone (( in this case, a foreigner )) tries to use English slang, it comes out sounding muddied and cringe-worthy as if they’re trying to be funny, but when Cara says ‘ cuppa, ‘ it rolls off her tongue rather fluidly. He wanted to be surprised, but the followup explanation said it all. However, it merely spelled out T R O U B L E. It reeked of a ‘ bonding moment ‘ and he feared dwelling into his own past for the sake of small talk. Immersing Cara into his life, let alone a redacted past, was something he had to veer away from. The less she knew, the better. Yet was it fair of him to constantly prod her own mind ? He was a bloody hypocrite. Quietly, to himself, he thinks of his own father and wonders if he still thinks of his son fondly or if he had long since buried him along with his other son and returned back to work as if it was just any other day.
He knows the feeling all too well. Of being on-the-go and forgetting to embrace the little things that make life worth living. It’s mechanical - life, that is. After a while, you settle into a routine and forget to stop, breathe and rethink things. Even now, he can’t bring himself to stop and smell the roses - as the cliche goes. She was being blatantly honest with him and he STILL had the audacity to question everything. It was a habit that would eventually die with him. Nonetheless, it set him at ease. In the time she made the tea and put the finishing touches, he was already straining the pasta and adding the powdered cheese blend, gently mixing as he spoke.
❝ That’s good. We can enjoy our tea and processed meal in peace then. ❞
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