This was written for a creative writing class, Fall semester of 2013. The title is inspired by Emilie Autumn's "Photographic Memory." Enjoy.

"The Tea Brewed Too Strong"

A burst of cinnamon from the tea bag nips her tongue as she prepares a cup for her evening delight. The hiss of the water boiling of the kettle signals that it is almost ready. Just a few minutes more! She coats the bottom of the coffee mug – the one her cousin bought her from Starbucks as her Christmas present three or five years ago – with a small layer of sweet honey.

The kettle whines, begging to be taken off, and she flicks off the heat. She holds the bag along the side of the cup and pours the water in, making sure not to scorch the tea leaves and other flavorings. The hard part is always the waiting.

She finds herself to be doing that a lot, waiting. For the bus, for the colleges, for her husband, for the nightly tea, for the test results... Waiting all the time does not make one a patient person, and yet she finds herself most patient when it comes to tea – something about the simple perfection in it or something along those lines.

Four... five... six minutes, and the tea is ready. She plucks the soggy bag out, tossing it in the compost bin – it will have to be dumped in the pile outside soon – and blows on the top. Smiling, she happily sips the hot beverage.

With tea in hand, she flounces into the living room and picks up the library book. It is an old thing, the spine is cracked and the pages are yellowed, and it smells of old paper and cigarettes – she wonders if the last reader was a chain smoker. She's still not sure why she picked out this particular book but so far she is enraptured in the words and the story. The plot is compelling, but the characters lack any sincerity.

"That's what you get for picking an espionage thriller," she says to herself, lips kissing the rim of the mug. She hums and opens up to where she left off.

Two hours pass and then another. Her tea is gone, and her husband is still not home. She fingers the cold, metal weapon under the pillow she's leaning on. His is not the first time and it is not the last – unless she ends it, of course. But should she? That was a very good question...

The door lock clicks and there is muffled voices. Someone is urging another to be quiet. The door creaks open and her husband comes in. He is doing across the shoulders of some of his buddies from work.

"About time," she says, eyeing them warily and setting down the book.

"Where do you want him?" one of the buddies says. She thinks his name is Ben or Bran or something like that.

"His bed," she says, fingering the cold, metal weapon once more. She decides that, yes, she will go through with it.

When they return from their bedroom, his bedroom, she removes her hand from the weapon and asks:

"Who was he hanging all over this time?"

"Some blonde bimbo," the B-named man says. "A tease and a tramp. Not worth his time or your anger."

"We're going down to drop her off at her house," the other man says. "Do you want to check her out or...?"

"Take her home, I don't care," She waves her hand and they nod, taking their leave. The B-named man says his farewell and she feels some remorse for not remembering his name.

She plucks the weapon from under the pillow and looks at it. It is an ugly, black thing. Small, but powerful. She normally keeps it locked in her safe, by her side of the bed. She, again, ponders whether or not she should go through with it, now that she was actually looking at the infernal device that would do the deed.

She nods, making her decision. She heads to the bedroom and closes the door.