The prompt: Tea Time
I’m grateful for the botanists who managed to make tea — let alone my favorite type, green tea — thrive in our artificial environments. Don’t get me wrong, I’m absolutely grateful that I can enjoy tea like I did before the stupid apocalypse.
It’s just not the same, ok? I’ve compared it with what’s left of my pre-war stash and the tea up here isn’t the same. I don’t mean that it’s bad. It’s just… different. It’s not my tea.
I know I sound ungrateful, I know, but… after I heard of the tea that the botanists started growing here, I got my hopes up that at least one thing, one small thing, would be the same. And it’s not. And it feels so bad.
I just have to accept it and drink my tea without sugar.
If I close my eyes, lean back and think of the good old tea, my tea with one well-stirred sugar cube, it almost tastes the same.
When I imagine the fresh wind and the grass on the hill my love and I used to have picnics on, it actually tastes the same…
…but that’s just because my new tea has tears in it now…