I make a cup of tea. If things were different, if this was yesterday, I would be making two.

No matter how quietly, how lightly, how slowly I could leave our bed, I'd wake him up.

"Your stomach?" he'd ask. "Yes, but it's not bad, go back to sleep," I'd say. But by the time I came out of the bathroom there'd be the scent of camomile and I'd follow it down to the kitchen to find him pouring out two cups. He'd stay awake with me until we both got sleepy.

The spoon makes a hollow clanking sound in the cup as I stir.