sunday morning (lie-in).

I love making a cup of tea.

The familiarity of the cupboard's soft wooden frame underneath tired fingerprints; the slight hesitation before the vibrant boxes; the moment of darting forward with speed to caress the cardboard before I change my mind. I like the noise of the kettle as it boils. No longer a traditional hob-and-copper affair, but the hum and trembling hiss and the soft blue glow telling me that the water's uncertain surface hasn't melded with the air quite yet. The way the mug fits into my hand, the cool comfort of palm against china, tracing the designs on it with impatient fingers as steam begins to swirl into the midmorning kitchen air.

And now the roughness of a teabag, and the spicy, exotic scent that seems to pervade through the air in a gentle yet pointed way and travels upon the nerves in my brain. A small heap of sugar – shush – into the mug.

High-pitched click, then one of a lower tenor: I lift the kettle from its throne and the water puckers its vague plane with a series of splashes and deep, throaty pops. Tracing the lines of grey a third of the way up the inside of the mug with a teaspoon, watching the sugar dissolve, forming tendrils of thicker molecules, like small galaxies, swirling in the amber liquid. The soft crackle of the turning lid of a milk carton, and then it flows and cascades into the drink, blooming like a flower, spreading petals of smoky cream and slowly filling out the space.

And all of this hangs in the balance, resting on the bottom lip of the drinker, enticing that first sip with strands of steam, and dulling the senses with the relaxing concoction of winter and Sundays and lie-ins.