He remembers a young girl, but the things in this house are the possessions of an old woman. Plastic covering the couch upholstry. A lace tablecloth. Porcelain figures on the mantel of a fisherman's wife, a bell and a kettle. "You collect miniatures?
"I told you they're my amulets."
"Perhaps I should go."
"Nonsense, you're not well enough to go yet," she says, "drink your tea."
He tries to find the young girl in her leathery face.He tries to remember the feeling, the furious excitement that fueled them to give up their innocence together - leave it behind like old skin - once upon a time. He searches her face through the steam rising from the tea cup in between them. But he only sees a reflection of his own ancient self.
"Drink your tea," she says. The spicy aroma is intoxicating.
But then that nagging feeling returns. Something important, but what? He was supposed to meet with someone. A young man, very familiar, someone close to him. He can almost see his face, but he can't quite remember who it is or when it was they were supposed to meet. How long has he been here? His head feels foggy.
"Drink your tea," she says.
He looks up as if seeing her for the first time, startled, scared.
"Why am I here?" he asks.
"I couldn't keep warm at night. Now finish your tea and come to bed."
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