The Cup That Cheers

My writing class was given the task of writing in the second person. I found it very difficult, not sure if I've managed it.

A small ornate table, the description by some would be antique but you called it second hand, was placed near a leather wing armchair which had passed its best but had become ‘you’ shaped. Upon the table you placed a tray, silver in need of a polish, which held a cup and saucer, china of course, with faded roses and the faintest hint of gold; a pair of tongs and a bowl containing sugar lumps. You returned to the kitchen bringing back with you a teapot and a tea strainer. One more journey was needed before you could settle and enjoy. The last requirement was a plate containing two shortbread biscuits.

This ceremony, which is what you considered it to be, was performed on the dot of four each afternoon. The tea on this occasion was Earl Grey but it could have been Lapsang Souchong or Gunpowder but it had to be leaves. Tea bags would not do for this special time. You plumped up the cushion sat and wriggled you way into the perfect position. You watched as the aromatic steam made its sinuous way from the spout and up into the ceiling. You sat and you remembered. And the steam took on forms and shapes.

A tremble began in your fingers as you placed the tea strainer on top of the cup which rattled in the saucer. Taking a deep breath you picked up the pot and poured. The amber liquid cascading in an uneven flow into the receiving vessel. Vapours swirled, coalescing into memories. You watched and the trembles returned, and the guilt.

You could see her face, the smile she always wore transforming into pain, pain and accusation. You tried to look away but her eyes, those blue pools of loveliness held you. Wanting to dismiss the memories you picked up the cup, holding its rim to your lips. Taking a sip, its bitter sweetness echoing your thoughts bringing back the love, and the hate.

The tea failed to lift your mood or to bring comfort. You pushed the biscuits away remembering that they had been her favourites, the ones she loved to make delighting in your smile as you closed your eyes nibbling at the sweet treat. The tears started and your body shook, wracked with sobs.

What had you done, or not done? You made her leave; your love was too much or was it not enough? You wanted to possess her, to own her, you wanted her unconditional love but she wanted a life with you but with freedom to choose. You made her make the choice.

The tea is now cold, its steam no longer conjuring up images and memories. You sink deeper into the chair, your hand delving down into its depths, searching. At last you find it, a scrap of silk still holding her scent. Shapes of roses, her favourite yellow still evident, and staining one corner a crusted brown mark.

You blame her for what happened, you couldn’t let her leave.