Derek & peppermint tea



She didn't bother looking up. She knew by the smell, by feel that Derek had returned. He sat opposite her, watching her. When she read, she would wrap a strand of hair around her finger and then let it go. repeating the habbit over and over. She was reading now. Legs bent underneath her. A blanket over her thighs. Every now and then she would stop twisting her hair and pick up her cup, never by the handle and sip her tea. Usually peppermint or spearmint and camomile, occasionally licquorice. Because it was winter. In summer she'd sip peach and passionflowers. Or strawberry and mango. Something that smelt and sounded more tropical.

He knew she knew he was there. She kept sneaking glances of him over the top of her glasses when she thought he wasn't looking. She wondered to herself if she didn't speak. If she tried to move less, would he disappear? She already knew the answer. He would always be there. No matter where she went or what she did or with whom.

It used to bother her. His persistant presence. More frequent when she was alone or lonely. He would watch her, like now. She had grown used to it over time. Time seemed irrelevant where Derek was concerned. And she grew fonder of him. Sometimes speaking to him without looking up from her book. And he'd smile that smile that made her weak in the knees, making her wish for a moment she could step into his space and kiss those lips that looked so soft and inviting. But she'd sit. Still reading. Sipping tea, twisting her hair. Almost daring him to leave.

He'd put up his feet and stretch out, still watching her. He could see her inward smile, see her relax. They both knew, she would never complain. She held onto her memories of him, of her, of what may have been, what was and what can't. It mattered not. Nothing did.

She was comfortable with her ghosts.

2003-06-18 12:16 p.m.