Every Evening, My Husband Tipped Two Drops From a Small Dark Glass Bottle Into My Tea
Daniel insisted on brewing a particular dark roast espresso for himself every morning and evening, filling the small Italian pot with dark grounds.
“Why don’t you go sit at the table?” he said, turning on the burner.
“I’ll brew us something warm.”
He brought the porcelain mug to the kitchen table twenty minutes later and set it down beside my paper place mat.
“Drink it while it’s fresh,” Daniel said, sitting across from me with his own cup of dark roast espresso.
“It’ll settle your nerves.”
I picked up the hot mug, feeling the steam rise against my chin.
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