[Sal's not really the best when it comes to sitting still. She's well accustomed to pushing her body beyond its limit, and might have actually done so already, but that doesn't mean she wants to sit down again so soon. A restless person like that might want some kind potion to ease them down; especially someone who isn't used to sleeping for more than a few hours at a time.

So while standing, because what are manners, she pours herself a piping hot cup of tea and isn't as cautious about trying to let it cool first.]

Not completely black. It has the little white feet and tuft on its chest. There's a name for that, isn't there?

[She leans her hip against the edge of the table, sipping her hot tea and looking down to Anathema. There's a sudden, strange tug she feels in her chest— maybe it's concern? She must be worn out, right?

She can picture it, though; whatever the stereotype is she's referring to. Curled up with a nice quilt somewhere in this house, a cat on her lap to keep warm. It's very picturesque, but it's also true that Sal can be a sentimental dope if she's not paying attention to it.]

How long does the tea take to kick in, anyway? Your roommates aren't going to have to come home and peel me off the floor, are they?

[The mug doesn't completely hide that grin. Who needs an unruly cat when you have this miscreant around, anyway?]