"Have you ink and paper?" he questions before she disappears into the kitchen forever suddenly inspired to write The tea was bitter and would have ruined an otherwise perfect history of lovely Sunday mornings shared with tea and crumpets -- times for reading poetry discussing the world's ills exchanging intimate glances Four minutes is all it needs but she confused the labels and steeped for six Or maybe her confusion was with what he is - a man with a taste for bitterness for whom life's meaning is the aftertaste of longing and missing out "Taste" she comes back, offering a fresh cup steaming with a fragrance reminiscent of honey It was the sweetness she had always brought [20 IV 08]