I drink my tea out of huge mugs. No china teacups for me, thank you very much. A little milk and no sugar, if possible. It's the best kind of friend whose body knows this, who pulls out the teabag at just the right time, stops slopping the milk just before it gets too cold and never has to think about it once. I always put my right sock on before the left one, and I brush the teeth on the left side of my mouth before the right. I like things to be asymmetrical but well composed. I like my lines straight and my people skewed. He - one of the skewed ones - offers me tea in a mug, and I decline because I have yet to find fault in him. I know that he knows, but I am afraid to trust that he'll get it just right. I'm afraid it'll be wrong, and in turn, everything'll be wrong. The bruise that he left on my neck is faint, and on the right hand side. He left it there just before he took my right sock off before my left. Goddamn, it was awkward and I left in a haze of no excuses just after three in the morning with a two hour drive ahead of me. My eyes blurred and I yawned and I allowed my blood to freeze while dawn showed up. I told myself that it wouldn't work. I think I believed it. But a new day brings new light, and now I'm not so sure anymore. I have shed enough tears for him.