His tea is getting cold.

It's such a shame. It was supposed to be a picnic. There's two cups on the table. Milk and sugar off to the side. How funny that everything is burning but all that matters is the wasted tea.

He traces his finger around the rim of his own cup. Across the table, a ghost peers back at him. It's not really there, of course. Just a slowly cooling mug.

It was his favorite tea, too. A shame.

Somewhere, there's music playing. He likes to have the music. It makes him feel less alone.

There's two cups on the table, and there is only him.

He's fallen into the habit of making two. He knows exactly how they should be prepared. Two teaspoons of sugar and a squirt of lemon in one, and cinnamon in the other. He never really understood the cinnamon, for a flower tea it seemed odd.

Cinnamon was never his favorite. Sometimes people ask him why he keeps cinnamon sticks in the first place. He doesn't tell them it's for the tea.

He buys the expensive type, though, the one he's always used. But he doesn't like cinnamon, so he doesn't mind as much when he wastes it.

He messed up the recipe this time. Too much lemon. He drinks the cold, sour tea anyway.

He waits after he makes the tea. Longer every time. He doesn't know why. Maybe he's waiting for someone. But they never show up, and he waits longer, and the tea gets colder every time.

His tea is gone. He forgot to take the teabag out again. Too late now.

He pours the cold cup of cinnamon tea down the drain and tries to pretend he doesn't feel disappointed.

Thanks for reading, reviews and constructive criticism are welcome, and have a great day.

See you soon.

-TheEscapedCharacter