Every Evening, My Husband Tipped Two Drops From a Small Dark Glass Bottle Into My Tea
There was no teacup on the tray, no kettle heating on the stove, and no dark glass bottle sitting on the counter behind him.
“I made breakfast for us,” he said, placing the tray on the iron table between our wicker chairs.
“You slept nine full hours without stirring once.”
“I feel remarkably clear today,” I said, setting my napkin across my lap.
He smiled, leaning over to kiss my forehead before sitting down.
“That’s because you finally let yourself rest, Margaret.”
“Are you not having any tea this morning?”
“Not today,” he said, taking a small bite of toast.
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