“One for each person,” she thought she heard.

“And one for the pot,” the whispered reply.

Yes she thought. You again.

She turned her head away, the easier not to hear.She stood on tiptoe, stretched up and opened the kitchen cupboard. 

“I could’ve done that for you,” he said.

She shook herself off. She reached high, levered up a saucer, scrabbled at a cup, caught it before it slid off the hook and brought all gently down to the bench. 

Again? She thought.

“One for each person.”

“And one for the pot,” his whispered reply.

No, she mouthed silently.

She lifted open the percolator, turned on the tap and filled it.

One cup. she said to herself.

She opened the coffee bag. Carefully spooned out enough coffee. For her. 

“One for each person,” he whispered.

Not Again? She thought. Surely he would know by now.

“And none for the pot,” she said to herself.

She turned on the stove. 

Then she felt his tap on her shoulder. Cold.

She slammed the percolator down and caught it just in time. She whirled. She brandished the percolator at him.

”Give it up will you,” she said aloud. 

Clitter-clatter, she heard.Not that rattle, she thought. 
The cupboard doors sprung open.

She dodged and deftly ducked her head underneath.

She turned and shook her head again.

Another cup and saucer floated to the bench. 

Not the bloody teapot, she thought. 

An ugly squat misshapen John Bull teapot rose, circled and landed like a dragonfly on the bench. 

“One for each person,” he whispered.

“And this one is for the pot,” she finished.

She snatched up the tea pot and turned to face the cupboard.

“One…”, he began.

But before he could say or do anything, she turned back.

She stepped away from him. She stamped the garbage bin foot lever.

And in one movement, threw the teapot in.

“Plenty of tea on the other side,” she said as it shattered.