Bitter Tea

by Raymond P. Storez

      At seven in the morning I am sitting at the kitchen table, drinking strong black tea from an unnecessarily large cup while I let my eyes glaze over the folded front page of the Times. I am not actually reading the paper; my eyes are unfocused, taking the whole thing in as a blurred smear of newsprint. The words run together, headlines into body; photos and pictures flow and distort like an impressionist painting. I sip from the pale blue mug, continuing to stare dumbly and uncaring at the news. It is chilly in the apartment, but the early spring sunlight seems especially strong this morning, pouring vibrantly through the window over the sink. I sit in it, like a monitor lizard on a desert rock, a disheveled, pajama-clothed body basking on a rickety wooden chair. From the hall behind me I hear the sound of shattering glass, a muffled curse, and the sound of hastily shuffling feet as she hurries into the kitchen. There is a beaten, water worn cardboard box in her arms; various eccentricities poke out from its open top. It’s some of her things. She is packing.

      “I think you broke something.” I speak without taking my eyes off of the newspaper. Like a monotone magic eye puzzle, the image gets more confusing and enthralling the longer I stare. Without looking at her, I know that she has fixed me with a death stare: a mix of shock, disgust, and some deep underlying hatred. I hear an exasperated sigh, and her tiny feet shuffle off into the living room. There is some great calamity taking place in there; I can hear her rummaging. Our things are now becoming two separate entities; my things, objects to be despised, are being thrown about the room. Her things are being taken. I suspect that the record collection is being ransacked. I sip my tea, and wonder if I will find anything broken once the storm is over.

      She reappears in the doorway from the living room, her cardboard box full of hastily gathered possessions now bulging even more at its frail, tape-covered seams. There are a few vinyl albums piled precariously on top, along with what might be some DVD cases. I sip my tea. She stares balefully at me for many long moments. The room is becoming uncomfortable for me now, because I can feel her eyes boring into me as I idly pretend not to notice her standing there. I glance at the blurred lines of the Times. I sip my tea. Without warning there is a loud thud on the table in front of me; she had violently set her box down, and is now hovering over me, arms akimbo.

      I set the useless newspaper down on the kitchen table, followed by the pale blue tea cup that I set carefully next to it, being sure not to spill or disturb the dark liquid inside. After I feel enough time has passed to upset her some, I look up. My tone is flat.

      “Yes?”

      “This is why. This is exactly why. I cannot take this...can't take you! You confuse me! You just do not care! What sort of world do you exist in, Devon? What are you possibly thinking?” She throws up her arms to her forehead. It's very melodramatic, but the performance does little to stir me. She is looking at me; there's confusion on her face. Presently, she is blocking my sunlight.

      I decide that the best response is to simply half-roll my eyes at her, then close them for a few seconds. The heat from her vicious stare is only amplified by closing my eyes. Maybe when I open them again, I think to myself, she will have already gone. That would make things so much more pleasant. It would be nice to avoid this whole mess and get back to my morning. I have another twenty pages of newsprint to not-read, so many more lines to gloss over, pretending that I'm interested in the world. I have an entire cup of tasteless tea to still drink. I have my cold-apartment, my cell, to keep me company. I have a schedule, and her need for disruption is taking me from it.

      Her eyes are a little shiny, and the corners of her lips are quivering like a child with a scrape. Her pupils are moving quickly, dilating, receding, changing direction as they scan me. For a moment, I am worried that she might cry, the way her face is beginning to fall into ugly wrinkles. I can imagine her here, in the kitchen, sobbing with tear-stained cheeks and puffy red eyes. Her makeup will run. Her hair will fall to shambles; so will her dignity. I don't want that, especially not today. I sigh to myself, and clear my throat. I can't help but look down; I don't want to meet her gaze. I keep my hands at the seat of my pajamas; my fingers fold and unfold in a strange, uncomfortable puzzle. There is only relief when I hear a small, wounded noise come from somewhere above me. Her gasp is the breaking of the final link; the chain is shattered. Her tiny, fragile hands grab the box on the table; she takes a hold of her material life and girds herself to fire her last bullet. She gives her coup de grace.

      “Fuck you.”

      Her small feet shuffle out into the hall again; her flat-bottomed shoes pound the wooden floor; I hear the front door slam with violent force. Something once perched on a nearby wall shudders with the blow, and I hear it fall and break in the empty hallway. She is in the stairwell now, and as her footsteps thunder away, I count them. One . . . Five . . . Ten . . . Fifteen now. Twenty. She's at the bottom, and gone.

      I have my morning now. The sunlight, once again unobstructed, bathes me in yellow light and warmth. The chill of the icy apartment is not so great now. My hands take up the folded newspaper again, and I lift the meaningless print to eye level. I stare past the words, and once again allow them to resume their liquid blurred state. Ah, the daily news. Ah, the newsprint nightmare. Ah, my morning.

      I lift the pale blue mug to my mouth, sipping the dark liquid contained therein. It washes over my teeth, staining them, continues onto my tongue, staining it, and flows down into my insides, staining them. It is the most bitter tea I have tasted.