Monkshood

She had been talking for what felt like hours, all dressed up in her finery. She had chosen a fur coat and white leather gloves for the occasion. You could say she was trying to mask the decay of age with the stench of wealth. That was however all it was, a pathetic attempt.

He sat across from her, nodding mildly and silently, dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans. At one point he had made himself a coffee. She had insisted on tea.

“This is particularly good tea. What did you say it was called?”

“Monkshood, mother”.

Silence reigned.