Of course, he knew just how she liked her tea, and she was grateful. The simple fact of not having to wait for the kettle to boil, or stand and reach into the cupboards too high for her arms – but just right for his – was a blessing; a gift he unconsciously gave her in that instant. She sat back into the armchair, legs lifted over the arm, and rearranged herself into the cushions. The weariness of the last hours had been alternately settling and lifting since the evening process of bedtime routines had begun, alleviated at points by deeper immersion into the novel she was enjoying, and then impressed upon her joints and mind whenever necessary movement was required. This most recent trip to the bathroom had underscored certain irritations she normally tried to overlook: the squelch of non-grouted tiles beneath her sapatued feet; the need to depress the flush for twice the usual time, followed by an immediate re-flush – a skill of listening to the tonal change of water pressure; the obtuseness of a sink whose exact alignment had been sought for an hour two days previously, after the rubber-like tongue of soap slime she had pulled out and dumped unceremoniously in the bucket had been tipped through the compound wall corner to the unsuspecting maram street outside. This sink was a piece of work; such was her observation after almost every use. The new squeezy soap dispenser barely fit underneath the glass mirror shelf, and it made her hands dry. Nivea was there to rescue her skin from this unpleasant reality – and she preferred the act of moisturising her hands daily to the foul act of removing something so almost human from the sink’s outlet pipe, every few weeks.
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