The Anniversary Present

Step One. Remove the tea and the mug from the cupboard. Place them on the counter below.

The blue bag, labelled 'Cherry Bakewell', sits somewhere near the back of the cupboard, behind the chrome tin of sugar and a forgotten box of Yorkshire tea. Catie has to shuffle them both out of the way to slide it out before dropping it with a soft thump on the marble countertop. It's the first time it has sat pride of place, as it stored away a few months back from a larger haul. Catie tears the top off and unseals it, letting the cherry-marzipan scent waft up to her.

The mug sits on the opposite side of the cupboard. Its yellow glazing peaks out from the bottom row of tessellated mugs, and several others have to be moved out of the way before Catie can get to it. The thud it makes on the counter is heavier than the bag of teabags next to it, and the white enamel on the inside is scratched with grey lines from years of teaspoons. Catie's darling likes it specifically so they "can see the colour of the tea when it's brewed". It's an eyesore next to the deep reds and blacks of Caite's collection.

Step Two. Boil the kettle.

This is equally stuck in the back of a cupboard. Catie has to kneel to drag it out. The ceramic kitchen tile digs into her knees until the tin kettle is freed along with an avalanche of pots and pans that she has to push back in before shoving the cupboard closed on the disaster. She then drags herself up with an equal amount of force to fill the kettle up at the sink.

It sings as the water hits the bottom and sides, splashing out for extra percussion. Catie's ears feel like they're perking up as the hum rises in pitch. And all the while, she watches herself in the chrome surface, her light brown skin and bloody red lips set against the warm light of the kitchen. Her own dark eyes meet hers, fathomless. The reflection's lips quirk. She looks away. When the kettle feels heavy enough to bludgeon, she walks it over to the gas stove and it hisses as it comes to life.

The kettle takes five minutes to boil. Catie counts them as she listens. The stove hisses until it's overlaid with the water's simmering. Then the water begins to bubble, which then becomes frothing. When the kettle starts to shake, clamouring to be off the stove, Catie turns the hob off with a blunt pop, though it takes a minute for the water inside to settle again.

Step Three. Drop the teabag into the mug. Pour the water over it.

The teabag is a pyramid, its bottom pooling with cherry red tea leaves and dried petals. It hits the bottom of the mug with a maraca's shake, and Catie leaves the long white string attached hanging over the side like a life ring. It'll save her a teaspoon, if nothing else.

The kettle releases a hushed sigh of steam as Catie pours the water into the cold mug. From the moment the water touches the bag, it’s dyed a faint pink, swirling like blood in a weir as it fills up. She keeps her finger on the string to stop it from being sucked in, and the ceramic is still colder than the kettle's warm plastic handle, even as it warms up.

Step Four. Let it steep, then make your additions.

The sunshine-yellow egg timer clicks as Catie sets it to three minutes, letting the tea turn the water a deep red in the mean time. She then dumps it on the counter and turns to retrieve her 'addition'.

The glass vial of white crystalline powder was hidden in the back of a shelf near the kitchen door. Catie extracts it from behind one of the dustier recipe books, an originally-red leather tome with a silver spoon on its spine, faded to pink by sunlight and a layer of grey dust, and holds it up to the light.

Almond extract, if anyone asks. She smiles before she brings it over to the mug next to the draining board.

It dissolves like sugar in the boiled water. Catie stuffs the glass vial into the recycling, hiding it in a milk bottle next to a box of cake mix that hadn't been folded down. She makes a mental note to fold it down later if she has chance.

Step Five. Take the teabag out and serve.

The timer rings shrilly once before falling silent and Catie hurries back to it to take the bag out. It drips for a few moments when it's pulled out. Catie holds it over the mug until it's done, before dumping it with a plastic-y thunk on the bottom of the bin. She then picks it up and brings it into the dining room next door.

The mug is now hot against Catie's palm. She balances it between her hands delicately as she walks into where her recipient awaits with bright, eager blue eyes and a restless posture. Their leg drills against wooden floor below and their right hand's fingers drum against the table.

Catie ignores all of it as she sits across from them, carefully placing the tea in front of her.

It is only when she looks at her darling properly that Catie notices the slice of cake. A yellow sponge sandwiching thin layers of buttercream icing sits in front of them, the yellow only a shade more vivid than the blonde of her darling's hair, on a bright red plate. The darling in question grins cheekily behind it, wrinkling their nose smugly.

Catie rolls her eyes and finally pushes the mug of tea forward.

Her darling does the same with the cake, and they both sail past each other, the ceramic ringing as the noise of the table beneath bounces between them. Catie would've missed the delicate dessert fork placed on the plate had it not winked in the lamplight during its journey.

Her darling takes the handle of the mug gratefully, inhaling the smell of cherries and marzipan.

"Cherry bakewell?"

Catie's lips twitch upwards. "We'd been saving it for this occasion, had we not?"

Her darling smiles, soft and exasperated. "I didn't expect for you to serve it to me."

"Well, now I have. Drink up."

They roll their eyes, then Catie watches them as they take a long sip of their drink. They pause and look up to the ceiling, as if discerning the taste was a matter of divine intervention rather than their mouth.

Something in Catie's chest releases when they finally swallow.

Then their brow furrows. "Is the marzipan burnt?"

Catie raises an eyebrow. "Burnt, darling?"

"Burnt, bitter," they clarify, swilling the taste around their mouth with their tongue. Something Catie watches with hungry eyes.

"Perhaps I scorched the leaves. You make tea better than I."

Her darling hums, then their eyes flick to the cake. "How's your cake?"

The yellow sponge sits on Catie's plate, accusing her with its whole-ness. The icing, she realises, is actually a pastel yellow, as opposed to the white she first saw it as, still, it holds its shape like powdered snow when Catie takes the fork in her hand and sinks it into it.

On her fork, the yellow is even more luminescent. Catie purses her lips at it, displeased, but brings it to her mouth anyway.

Sweet lemon flavouring spreads across her tongue like a summer day. The sour curtly cut with sugar, it was like sitting in a circle of sunlight. Beautiful, if it hadn't been for the undercurrent of something bitter and burnt, as if the baker had left the sponge in the oven for too—

Catie's eyes fly open. She puts her fork down on the table with deliberate slowness, swallowing the cake like it's a lump in her throat.

Her eyes meet her darling's. "Did you leave it in the oven too long?"

They grin, wide with too many teeth. "Great minds think alike."

How damning it is that they could still be cute while having just matched Catie's dark deed.

"Indeed," she turns the word over on her tongue as a wave of dizziness comes over her. "Happy anniversary, darling."

"Happy anniversary, my love."

Somewhere outside the house, an ambulance siren begins to wail.