I prefer Earl Grey.

"I don't want a home anymore," she breathed. Exasperated was, most definitely, an understatement.  

The wheels of her bike turned faster and she pushed harder to reach the top, the paved blocks smoothing out and getting left behind her. She kept telling me how she didn't like herself anymore. I told her I liked her even more. 

There was a point where, maybe because of the cold or maybe because of the cigarettes, that I couldn't tell whether the sun was rising or setting.  The light hit the edges of the buildings lining the river and I walked at the same speed as the water. Every boat was rusted and fearsome; the people that I imagined on them were even more so, like the ones who fought through the depths of the Amazon with a machete and a cigar and a novel in tow, with hearts of darkness and boots of steel. Not her cup of tea. Not really mine either.  I prefer Earl Grey. 

Summer was a thing of the past. It was children's books with coffee stains and falling asleep halfway through a movie marathon.  It was castles that were home to no one and laughter recorded on a loop as to preserve it's space and sound in time but by the time you go back and listen to it, it's already as stale as Sunday's black coffee still marinating on the nightstand on Thursday.  You couldn't taste its warmth, not that you might want to. 

I don't really like black coffee anyway.  Even after a chilled bike ride in a too-thin coat at sunset. 

I prefer Earl Grey. 

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