Angela poured the last bit of vanilla almond milk she had into her warm black tea and stirred, staring out her kitchen window. Business, now that the raindrops finally came out to dance across everyone’s window panes, eased to the speed of an infant snail. Clients would still come, but in much smaller numbers.
Even smaller than last week.
Feeling depressed at the potential prospects, Angela blew across the surface of her milk tea and took a tentative sip. Good combo — sweet even, but… How to make it better?
Instinct nudged her to the spice cabinet, made her pull out her metal can of cinnamon and sprinkle a pinch across the top. Just enough so that the flavors would not overpower each other.
Keeping the harmony between each ingredient.
Life was like that, wasn’t it? Much too hot, much too cold, much too serious or delightful for anyone to ignore? Never mind the excruciating parts. Or the ecstatic parts. People wanted what they wanted, and nothing would ever change that.
Questions about their future were merely just that — quests for the things they forgot they wanted.
Richard, her precious black cat, mewed softly at Angela’s feet. She knelt down to him, regarding each and every line in his irises, memorizing their thoughtful patterns. Touched the milky black fur between his ears. Understanding what she now understood.
Visitors wouldn’t be coming today. Wouldn’t be coming at all.
Xenophobic witch-haters — every one of them.
“You want chicken tonight, Richard?” she asked. “Zucchini, too?”