Tea

Leah Budin

Sunlight streams in though the lace curtains and warms the tops of my feet while the expanse of tile cools the bottoms of my feet. I am on a large armchair, made of genuine leather, and seated by a floor-to-ceiling window. It is late spring and the pollen and dust are mingling in the air, glimmering gravityless as they weave and ebb though the air, illuminated by the sun.

I am drinking tea. The high arched ceilings above me make me think not of grace, but of the amount of collected dust that must be there. I am afraid of breathing too much of it in, of the insides of my lungs becoming soft like a stuffed animal’s synthetic fur. I am afraid of choking to death but unable to move.

It is not my house, but my home. I have rollerbladed across the tile, the bright blue shining tile, pretending I was a mermaid jesus athlete that could not only walk, but blade and do mediocre tricks on water. The entire room was shaped like a circle; it had been a ballroom full of debutantes and rich gentlemen in its day. Rollerblading was almost like dancing, in its own clumsy preadolescent way. No one in this day and age ballroom dances anymore; only our parents know how. I used to hang out here with Maureen.

The rest of her family is sitting in the other room, whispering to each other. I could turn around and look at them, dark featureless creatures hunched over, crying, wondering if I’m all alone, if I would like some more tea.

I am finishing off my cup. I feel tea slide down my throat and spread into my stomach like energy into a light bulb. It is filling my veins; it is giving me life. The Chinese, the British, and all the Starbucks around the world, all brought together by boiled leaves. The scent and steam is numbing my face.

I have not blinked my eyes in a long time and everything is slowly getting darker. The blue room is dimming into dark blue, and when I shift, the edges are becoming a vivid orange. My eyes are getting dry and I close them. Out the window, cars are driving by, occasionally screeching or honking. I can hear people’s heels click on the sidewalk below. This is a rich neighborhood; they are women in Prada and stiletto heels, walking their poodles. It is almost comical, how cliché they are, how perfect it all is. I have not cried yet.

In the other room, they are talking about me. They are wondering whether I am all right. They are wondering collectively whether they should send one of their own out to my own little island, to see whether or not I need anything. I would like another cup of tea. I want one of them to check on me, but even more, I want the tea.

One of them creaks out of the old wooden sofa they have in the living room. Nothing they have in the living room can possibly compare to the spacious ballroom, the two soft armchairs seated in front of the glass table by the windows. I can imagine the temperature change from their deeper, darker room and into my light, airy space. It is more pleasant out here.

It bends over. I can sense its breath; I open my eyes but do not look at it. It is a pale creature in shadowy garb, bending over and asking me whether I would like more tea. I hold up my glass and nod, never allowing myself to see who it is. I don’t want to know whether it is Maureen’s mom, her grandmother, or one of her multitudes of cousins. I don’t want to see the family.

It pads away and later drifts back. Tea is placed into my cupped hands, scaldingly fresh.

I do not want to be here. I do not want to be sitting shiva in this beautiful mansion on this beautiful day thinking about death. I do not want to think of worms eating Maureen’s body. I do not want to be thinking about my own impending death.

Clouds are staring to gather and my feet are cold again, just like hers must be.

I drop the cup, listening to the dismayed laughter of the crash. The tea splashes onto my feet and I finally begin to cry.