Thanks for the Tea

Your mother, an avid housewife, used to say you'd never be a good one yourself since you're such a tomboy and an artist lacking every sense of practicality. She was half right, but only half. Because when you met him, your life fell in rhythm with the primal woman you carried deep in your soul. You found yourself, found order in the chaos. Now your house has everything you've ever wanted – whimsical clutter all around, a cat, a piano, a large stack of old records. And then there's him, of course, who appreciates the beauty of this spontaneity just as much as you do.

You wake up to a wonderful sunny day. He's out already, and you can't help but smile at the mess he left on the kitchen table. But there's still warm tea in the pot, and your hand shakes a bit as you pour it out. You can feel happiness pool in your stomach as you drink it; your skin soaks up the sunlight, setting your blood ablaze.

Before you head out with a smile on your face, you leave a note on the refrigerator, just a simple message: