John sat at on his west facing verandah, gazing out at the mottled reds and blues of a dying sun. bathed in the trills and buzzes of the evening, he contemplated his 'solitude.' a low rumble of laughter escaped him.
"I go catch myself talking to the trees and waitin' for answer one o dese fine days." another chuckle. rising from the well worn, sturdy wooden chair, he ambled into the house, favouring his left side. In the familiarity of his bare four walled, one room hut, he went to the far left corner. Gingerly kneeling, he re-kindled his firepit. Flame stoked, he placed the kettle on for his evening tea. reaching under a floorboard for his hidden sweet breads and tea bags, his eyes catch a flash of light. Turning to the source, he sees the pendant, suspended over his sleeping mat. He had not thought of Melissa for a long time. He looks up sharply, eyes darting to the doorway- it is, of course, empty. He silently chided himself. She would never be back here; indeed, she could never return anywhere.
"It wasn' mi fault, but a coulda never your own." the kettle, a once shiny copper thing, starts to shuffle on it's fire perch. soot blackened, with a plastic nub for a handle it whistles lamely. John reached for his mug, wrapping his right hand with a corner of his shirt to grip the kettle, he pours his cuppa. a teabag flows up as the water level in the mug rises. the water very slowly becomes coloured by the leaves - or by the dregs of previous cuppas - He has ceased to care. This was the last one she gave him, and though now more of a suggestion of, than the once strong peppermint, he sips with a sort of lazy reverence. He hated tea. She had always been the tea drinker.
