One Day. Not Today.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A woman prepares the tea and contemplates what seems an impossible dream.

Submitted: January 14, 2013

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Submitted: January 14, 2013

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She stood with her hand on the handle of the kettle, feeling the slight trembling travel up into her hand as the water started to boil. Next to the kettle, in the rectangular patch of sunlight that lay on the counter, was the tea tray. On it was a single porcelain cup and its saucer, a thin silver spoon placed on the folded cloth napkin, a small dish of gluten free ginger biscuits, and a small bowl of sugar cubes.

The woman stood silently, looking at the kettle, at her hand on the kettle. She seemed to be gripping the handle rather tighter than necessary, as if without the link to the physical world, she might just float away. The appearance of the woman that afternoon, as she stood in the sun waiting for the kettle did nothing to negate this impression.

She was on the small side of average height, small build, thin wrists and long fingers. She wore a grey dress which fell in rather lovely drapes from her shoulders and the tie around her waist. Her reddish hair was loosely tied back in a bun, though strands of it spiralled down around her face and neck, wisps here and there sticking up at creative angles. From the modest hemline of her dress sprouted small legs, ending in small ankles connected to bare feet.

Her greyish eyes remained unfocused in the general direction of the kettle.

She wore no jewellery.

There was not much about the house that the woman liked, but for him everything had to be just so, and her spirit had broken a while ago. She did, however, like the kettle. Something about the ridged handles so her fingers fit it just so. Something about the squat, rounded edges with their clean lines. She liked to look at the warped reflections of the kitchen in the stainless steel, the distortions made her fingertips tingle. Sometimes, she imagined being inside the surface of the kettle, her entire being refracted at odd angles, her surroundings bulging in and out depending on the angle she held her head at. Sometimes, she felt that way in real life.

She blinked.

The water had boiled minutes ago. He liked his tea very fresh, the water would have to be boiled again and by then it would all be very late and he'd be very very upset. She softly ran a hand down her left side, ribs and stomach and collarbone, probing, pressing here and there. No pain, the bruises had faded days ago- though as the water slowly came to boil again, she felt a throb, perhaps a premonition, perhaps ghost pains- she'd been late with his tea before.

Pouring the water from the kettle into the glass plunger, she imagined walking into the sitting room with the kettle fresh from the boil, and he'd turn around expecting tea. She pictured the surprised expression dripping from his face as the boiling water melted him, melting melting until he was nothing more than a flesh coloured patch on the carpet, and she would sit down and drink the tea herself.

 

 


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