'Hi Celin, I have cinnamon rolls. Are you coming over?'
I bike through the rain and ring her door at 9.05 a.m.
Although it is early in the morning the candles are burning. T. always lights them, no matter what time it is. I don't know if it's a White Russian thing to do but I love it. It gives a special glow to the moment, like there's no rush. And it makes me feel special.
We sit at the antique dining table. The living room is like a jewelry box filled with things from past times. Lots of lamps, piles of old books, romantic crockery, antique figurines looking at you from every corner, framed portraits of women in white lace dresses. A pair of small angel wings between lots of things in the windowsill.
'Tastes good?' T. asks.
'Heavenly', I say.