300 Days of Writing
Day 41 Cup of Tea:
She never wanted to drink the cup of tea, but it was growing cold. Too milky, it tasted of dirty water and coated her teeth in a film of sugar. She ran her tongue along her gums, feeling the tender tip where she’d burnt it on the first sip.
Picking up the cup, she held it in both hands, cool and shaking. She pressed the porcelain to her lips and breathed, slurping the tea in a manner that could never be considered ladylike.
Lady. The thought of her made her hands shake more and she set the cup down to brush a tear from her cheek.
Her skin was soft and brittle, like tissue paper. Black mascara was smeared across her fingers, and she tried to clean the space under her eyes, but she only started to cry more.
The tears were quiet at first, but soon, her breathing came in rasps, little whoops as she tried to steady herself. She held her wet cheeks in both hands and glared at her cup of tea.
She hated it. Why was Lady making her drink it, even from beyond the grave? Punishment for her adultery? A cruel inside joke? Or worse, had Lady forgotten what she really liked and disliked? Was she so forgettable?
Standing up, she picked the teacup up and threw it at the wall. Royal blue and white ceramic shattering against the stucco wall. She watched with satisfaction as the milky tea dripped down, pooling on the floor.
Сайхан Бичээрэй!
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