Adams was exceedingly grateful for his friend and coworker, Ivan Zhao, who had brought him his favorite Lapsang Souchong tea all the way from China. Apparently, Zhao had taken severe pains in order to obtain such a rarity during wartime, but Adams knew Zhao's cousin runs a tea farm and that he was just exaggerating.

It was the day of your anniversary. Something about you had morphed Adams from the devilishly charming British ladies' man from one year ago into a doting and infatuated lover, and blinded him to other women. And now he was bringing a box of expensive tea home after a long day of work in order to celebrate.

Everything was in order. He had bought an old gramophone from a yard sale, had some record sent to him overseas from his friends from Oxford, and ordered a dress from a tailor all the way back in St. James' for you. He was proud to see almost the exact shade of Oxford blue he ordered when he opened the box.

You had left work earlier that day to get dressed and prepared, per an excusal from Kavinsky, the site leader, that Adams had orchestrated (and pulled a lot of strings for).

Soon, you were clad in a beautiful blue dress that fit surprisingly well despite his eyeballed measurements, standing by the counter with fine china in your hands as he rambled passionately about the tea he had brought home for you anniversary.

"Well, one simply cannot trust Americans to prepare this tea correctly… It is, of course, meant for the afternoon or evening. But then, Americans have no finesse whatsoever." He teased, watching you prepare the teapot with a watchful and appreciative eye.