Charles couldn't be bothered to stir the sugar in his tea. What? With the ass end of his fork? So what if it was annoyingly sweet at the end, a snails trail in pace and texture as he upended the cup and eyed the sky and let it crawl into his mouth. His grandmother, thank God she's dead the poor old girl, at every social gathering, used to stir four, five heaping spoons into her tea, all the while stirring, making trivial conversation, asking nonchalantly, "how many was that?"- and then brazenly eating the slushy paste with a spoon - let it be known, the woman knew how to make a meal out of a cup of tea. This used to mortify Charles- what would people think? What would his friends think? But they found her most amusing- they would laugh at her stories, rummage around her eclecticly filled candy dish, marvel at her sturdy catalog ordered shoes and say Charles wasn't being a good sport. So he stopped bringing them around, who were they to ridicule? judge? She needed, DESERVED, her peace and quiet- so they let her be. And then... well, we all know from our seats in the balcony how this all plays out. But what of Charles? Let's just say he's seen at many a social gatherings, eyes to the sky, waiting patiently.
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