As the tea kettle boils, and I rise from my creaking chair to turn off the gas stove, I realize that I am making tea. The mug has been laid out for a month now, and just this morning I decided it needed a tea bag and a spoon. Now, as I take out the spoon to pour the boiling water in, I scoop two spoonfuls of sugar, no more, no less into the mug. I pull the tea bag out before it gets too strong, and mix the sugar in, and I think about the mug. I can't remember where it came from. It's almost as if it just appeared on my kitchen counter one day and made my home its own.

Without thinking further, I automatically turn my head to the window of the back door in anticipation of... something. Or someone. Sure enough, there is already a face there when I turn. My heart skips, but the fear soon leaves me as I go to the door and invite him in.

He is wearing jeans and a faded tee shirt. His baggy denim pants are ripped in odd places, his shaggy brown hair is a mess, and his glasses are slightly askew. Is that a fresh cut I see, blood bubbling at his lip? Ushering him inside, I close the door and join him at the table. We say nothing, sitting side by side in old wooden chairs, him sipping the tea with a sad smile on his face. He looks at me, and I wonder if I look okay, if my short blond hair is combed, if I shaved this morning, if I have showered in the past week. He gives me a lonely smile, but I can only stare as he rises from the chair with the mug and walks out my back door, steam rising from the tea as he fades into the black forest.

Two months later. I see the mug sitting on the table, and feel that it has always been there. I remember I time when I missed it, but mostly it feels familiar, as if it lives here in my house. I am so lonely, not a wife, not even a girl friend to keep me company, and the dark woods becons stronger every day.

That night, I boil water, and set out the tea, and wait.

He comes again, with that lonely smile of his, and this time I understand, this time I want him, and he wants me.