“Most people who choose chamomile like the weight of honey,” Carl said. “Sugar is too sharp for it. It is on the second shelf, behind the baking soda.”
I reached behind the orange box of baking soda and found a small plastic jar of clover honey. He was right, of course. It was a basic preference I had never really thought to explain to anyone, yet he had anticipated it without a second thought. It felt like a small, harmless guess, but it stayed with me as I stirred the tea. The golden liquid swirled around the dark green clay of the cup.
“You have very specific ideas about tea,” I said, handing him the green cup.
“I spent most of my life believing there would always be more time to study the small things,” Carl said, taking a slow, appreciative sip. “It turns out the small things are the only ones that actually hold their shape.”
He walked back toward the living room with slow, deliberate steps, holding the hot cup steady without a single spill. I watched his retreating back, wondering where a man living in such a bare, modest house had learned to move with such effortless precision.
The mahogany chessboard sat on the low coffee table between two worn armchairs. Its polished dark wood seemed to absorb the dim afternoon light, making the rest of the room, with its faded green carpet and blank walls, look even more neglected. Carl sat down, placing his green tea cup on a round cork coaster that had seen better days.
“Do you play?” he asked, gesturing to the hand-carved pieces lined up in perfect rows.
“My father tried to teach me once,” I said, sitting opposite him in the matching chair. “I usually lost my knights in the first ten moves and spent the rest of the game trying to defend my king.”
“We shall start simple then,” Carl said.
