"Despite the lack of tea," Charles said with a mouth full of frosting, "this isn't half bad." Accepting the fact that they had absolutely no way of getting tea at such an hour, the pair had settled down at the table and dug into the cake. "However," he continued, "it could use drastically less sugar."

"What you meant to say is that it's perfect."

"No, it's-"

"Perfect." Paulette concluded whilst she stuffed a large forkful of cake into her mouth, closing her eyes as she relished the masterpiece that was an American cake. He raised up a hand as if to rebuttal her statement, but upon seeing Paulette's smile, put it down and continued to eat his piece with a smile of his own.

She continued to devour her slice, cutting out another piece as soon as she finished. Eventually the cake had diminished into bits of crumbs and leftover frosting scattered among the plates, the two of them leaning tiredly on the back of their chairs.

"We should have saved some of that cake," Charles mumbled, his face a subtle shade of sickly blue. She waved him off dismissively, her free hand still reaching for some frosting left on her plate with a fork.

"And watch it get stale? No way," Paulette said, frowning as the reach of her fork stopped just short of the frosting. Charles, with all the strength he had left, leaned over the table and flicked her fork away from the plate with his own.

"I think," he said, "that you've had quite enough."

"Jerk."

"Then a jerk I shall be." She gave out a small chuckle, and leaned back into her chair, stretching her back as she did so.

"What does Sir Jerk think about cleaning up the table?"

"He thinks that that would need to be a team effort."

"Hm. Is he sure?"

"Quite." She gave out another stretch, and got up from her seat, grabbing their plates as she did so. Charles got up as well, and took the tableware that was left on the table and brought it up to the sink, where he pulled up his sleeves and began to clean them with the soap bar and washcloth that was sitting on the rim, and Paulette dumped the plates beside him and started fussing with the tablecloth. It was only after a couple of dishes in that Charles looked up, his eyes wide with realization.

"Ah, that's right, we've got mail that we need to go through!" He promptly pulled himself away from the sink and walked over into the living room, the rustle of papers heard a moment later from the dimly lit corner of the apartment.

"As in actual mail, or just taxes? Because there's a difference between the two."

"Surprisingly enough, I mean actual mail," he eventually replied upon his return, his hands stuffed with letters that he proceeded to drop onto the table where she was currently folding the tablecloth.

"Really? Actual mail?"

"Mhm." Upon dropping off the bundle, he took the fiasco that was Paulette's attempt at folding the fabric away from her, which at the moment looked like a crumpled ball of paper.

"I thought I told you to stop trying to fold things," he said with an exasperated sigh, and unfolded the tablecloth, wrinkles already starting to settle in from her efforts.

"Sorry, Mom." Paulette grabbed a handful of the letters and started flipping through them, her face wearing a bored expression as she tossed each one aside, until eventually she looked up at Charles with a sly smile.

"Care to tell me what this is?" she asked, holding up a pastel pink envelope.

"What's wha- DON'T TOUCH THAT!" He lunged for the envelope but Paulette, despite sitting in a chair, was able to wave it out of his reach.

"Ah, ah, ah, not yet, I haven't had the chance to guess."

"Return that at once!" he shouted, attempting to grab it once more by jumping, only to be foiled yet again by his short stature, Paulette simply having to lean back a bit as he leapt.

"Let's see," she said, turning it around to get a closer look, "pastel pink envelope, a fancy stamp on the back here, and-" Paulette sniffed the envelope- "it smells of roses." Charles didn't respond to her analysis, his face far too busy being the shade of a cherry tomato, with which Paulette's sly smile only widened mischievously.

"Is this from who I think it is?"

"I… I don't know what you mean."

"In that case, let me just take a good look at the address on the front..." She flipped it over, the address written in a large and yet elegant cursive, the letters emanating such an air of condescension that it could only belong to one person that the two both knew.

"And here I thought she was married."

"Last time I saw her, she was."

"Yet here's a letter," Paulette said, eyes still focused on the writing, "from no other than Madame Abigail herself." When she didn't hear his response, she looked up to see Charles staring out the window. Upon seeing this she gave a heavy sigh, and waved the letter towards him.

"Alright, take it."

"What, you won't open it?"

"No way, I definitely don't want to know what's in these."

"These? This is the-"

"Only one? I'd take a good look at your drawer if I were you then," she quipped, Charles taking a glance at his bedroom cramped in the far corner, the drawer barely able to contain the pink that was within it. "Besides," Paulette quickly continued, her eyes set on a dim yet gold-ish glow that she noticed was emanating from the pile of letters, "I think we have something a little more interesting on our hands."