The cup of tea steamed on the table. “What, now you’re not thirsty?” His look told me I was being unreasonable, yet unsurprising.
“Fine, I’ll drink it.” I sat down and picked up the cup, then put it down. It was too hot to hold comfortably.
“Oh, don’t drink it for me.” He crossed his arms.
“Look, it’s not about the tea, all right?”
“What’s it about, then? Tell me what it’s about, since you seem to have it figured out.” He crossed his arms and leaned away from me.
“It’s… it’s about… this.” I waved my arms inclusively. “All of this. You making tea just to get angry about it. Me not wanting it because it’s not really about tea. Both of us dancing around each other all the time because neither of us wants to say that we just don’t want each other anymore.”
He shrank inward, and so did his voice. “You don’t want me?”
“I do. I would. If you really wanted me.”
“I want you,” he said.
“You do?” He nodded, small, tight, and fast.
The cup of tea stayed on the table, and we didn’t notice it again until it was no longer steaming.