Dave hears Mayling’s footsteps approaching and he hastily goes to meet her in the hallway. He is surprised by what he sees. She looks smaller, pale. She still has her beige raincoat on, and her hair is frizzed about her face from the damp. Her lips are pale and slightly cracked, and her eyeliner has smudged beneath the outer corners of her eyes. He notices that she’s holding a white teacup in her hand. He has never seen her look so slovenly or bewildered; he suddenly feels overcome with affection.

“Are you all right?” he asks, lightly stroking her cheek.

“A bit tired,” she replies.

“Let me make the tea.”

“No, it’s fine,” she says.

“Let me,” he insists, attempting to coax the cup from her grasp. She slaps him away.

“Ow,” says Dave, rubbing his hands.

“Sorry,” she says. “I was worried you’d break it. Now, come with me and tell me what you want.”

He follows her to the kitchen, where she starts pulling out boxes of herbal teas from the cupboard and lining them up on the cinderblock island.

“I really wanted some PG Tips. But it looks like we’re out,” she says, picking through the boxes.

Dave notices that she has put the teacup on the counter. He wonders if now is a good time to tell her. He imagines her throwing the teacup at him, her face red with anger. She’d throw it at him, and he’d duck, and it would smash against the wall. Standing among the little shards, she’d fire questions, Why, When, How? Or she wouldn’t throw the teacup at him; she’d put it down on the counter and look for something unbreakable to lob at him to minimize damage and mess—the plastic orange salad bowl, for example, the one he bought from IKEA that she was embarrassed to use when they had his parents over for dinner. The salad bowl would bop him on the head and land on the floor, spinning; she’d pick it up and continue hitting him on the head with it while firing questions, Why, When, How? The thought makes him smile a little. Or perhaps she’d surprise him and not throw anything or ask questions. Perhaps she’d just stand there blankly, holding her teacup. Maybe she’d get very quiet, very calm, and after a moment announce that she has to leave. Or she’d ask him, quietly and calmly, to leave. Which he would. He’d pack a bag, call Nathan. This third scenario feels like the worst one, the saddest. It occurs to Dave then, as Mayling holds up a sachet of peppermint tea and he nods and she drops it into the teacup and fills it with hot water, that it doesn’t take much to change everything: get up, go to her, speak. It doesn’t take much to cause deep, irreversible pain. The prospect is terrifying and thrilling.

“Let it steep for a couple of minutes,” says Mayling, handing him the teacup.