I am looking for my tea-mugs; one is green, the other, floral. I find them on the window-sill, both half drunk, as always.
It tells me two things; she must have been here twice, and I would make a poor house-maid. I take the mugs, head for the kitchen to pour them out. Instead, I place them on the sink. I glare at them, suddenly realizing that a half-drunk mug of tea is no longer a half-drunk mug of tea.
It is a song, played at the right time, then the wrong. It is a book, recommended, then left to dust. It is a movie, shared, then returned.
It has a pair of eyes now. It has hair. It has a voice, and even a particular way of touching my hand.
“Well, shit,” I tell the tea. It doesn’t get angry, it doesn’t mock. It is tea.
I pour it out.
How the hell am I going to spend the rest of my life avoiding half-drunk mugs of tea? I think, setting the kettle on.