She went to her room to get the tea bag, and didn't bother turning on any lights.  The invisible purple coat was easy enough to find by its shape.  After reaching into the first pocket, she remembered the tea bag was not actually in the coat but on the dresser where she had emptied her pockets.  Her fingers scraped the lining of the other pocket anyway, just to complete the action.

It gave her balance.

The kitchen was warmly lit.  Now there were only three minutes until the quiche would be done.  She bobbed the teabag up and down in the almost boiling wtaer, which was crimsoning with the hibiscus flowers, and sang, trying to think of the word that would fill in the hole.

Three encounters.  Three conversatinos.  The last was the best.  Papers had littered their table.  They glittered the space between with newsprinted faces and pretentious fonts.

The inability to suppress the smile was painful.  It could not be attributed to joy.  Energy, sure, but not definitely joy.

Joy:  type of mild energy.  Like a banana.

Smoke had incinerated her eyes and  nostrils, reaching back through her nose into her brain and down to her lungs.  The next morning her voice was broken and she felt mildly hung over, though she'd drunk nothing but hot tea.  Took a little of the fun out of it.  How could that be?  The energy had been inescapable, throbbing through her like amperes.

She bumped into some clumsy clutter and there was the thud of glass on wood. 

The candle did not go out.  It rolled lazily along the floor.