Just a Spoonful

We've made it official. You've moved in.

It didn't take long.

Now that you're here, I can pamper you with fluffed pillows, silk sheets, and lavender candles. Cater to your every need.

The morning is my favorite time of day. My favorite routine.

But only with you.

The alarm wakes me first. It's a small gift to watch you sleep in the blissful seconds before you stir.

Your raven hair falls against your cheek as you roll listlessly onto your side to face me.

Your porcelain skin. So delicate, so thin. I marvel at your beauty as you open your eyes.

You catch me staring, your lazy smirk pulling me close. I kiss your forehead.

"Tea?"

My first word every morning.

You nod.

"Sugar?"

You smile. "Just a spoonful."

Your first words every morning.

You have a sweet tooth, I've learned.

But your tea; you like it not too bitter, not too sweet. Like Goldilocks, somewhere in between.

The kettle screams, impatient. I lift it, silencing its cries. I close my eyes as the steam widens my pores. It is almost time.

I pour the hot water into a mug, your mug. The mug with the chipped rim that you insist on keeping. I run my thumb across that rough edge, a danger to your precious lips.

Just not today.

I place a tea bag in your mug. Green tea with lemon. I let it steep while you stay in bed.

I wrap the string around my finger, squeezing out every ounce of liquid.

This morning, the sugar bowl needs to be refilled. Your spoonfuls have become bowlfuls.

I pull the bag from the cabinet. Only the highest quality material for you.

The sugar flows, a white waterfall, into the bowl. I'm careful not spill it. I cannot waste a single granule. None of it goes unaccounted.

I sink the spoon into the white mound, watching the crystals shift and sparkle. Those intricate structures are some of the world's most beautiful creations. So beautiful with so much potential.

I knock the spoon against the rim of your mug three times, shaking those stubborn crystals loose from the steel. They dissolve instantaneously into a saccharine mixture.

Swirling your tea with the spoon, I walk back to the bedroom. Our bedroom.

Your eyes are closed, but I know you are awake.

I set your mug on the nightstand, and you mumble against your pillow.

"I wish we could spend the day in bed."

You've read my mind.

"Soon enough," I say.

And now, unfortunately, like every other weekday, I must leave you with your tea and head to work.

-

Finally, it's Saturday. There's no need to rush off to work.

It's Saturday. And it's Valentine's Day.

I have something magnificent planned, but it won't interrupt our morning routine. Not at all. In fact, we will have the best morning we've had so far. Even better to have the pleasure of witnessing your sweet morning indulgence.

I still rise with the alarm, not straying from our regimen. Not even for a second.

In the kitchen, I brew your tea. I add your spoonful of sugar, plus a bit of something special. You'll see.

Your mug is on the nightstand, waiting for you. The steam rises like my hope.

You reach for the mug and cradle it gently between your palms, relishing its heat.

Slowly, you begin to sip. I stand there staring, my breath catches every time your head dips.

You pause and set down your mug. It seems you've had enough.

It will be enough.

"Did you add more sugar? It tastes sweeter than usual."

I shake my head. "Just a spoonful."

It takes only a few more seconds. Maybe a minute.

The fear slithers its arm around your neck, a firm grasp against your throat. Your words choked, your tongue heavy. Blue irises, like the withering veins tracing your limbs, begin to plead.

But you've given me the key and I've found the lock. Your mouth bursts open and so does my heart.

Your blood spills from your lips. So warm, yet so cold. Across the sheets, blue ice-covered frills.

You fall back against your pillow, gracefully back to sleep.

I lift the blankets and tuck them under your chin, fabric thatched tight.

Rest now, my sleeping beauty.

Good night.