Mini-Story: The Cup

The cup sat on the counter, filled, as it steamed. Its wide brim tempted a peek, a taste, as it enticed curious it’s with the lacy designs that flourished inside. The clock ticked overhead. A squirt of lemon. A dash of cinnamon. A long… tick… tick… tick… drizzle of honey. The smell of chamomile lingers. Tick.

A stir, clock-wise. Tick. Another stir, counter clock-wise. Tick. Spoon on the saucer. The lacy teacup sweats. Tick. The lacy teacup has been placed before someone. Tick. Their shadow covers the lacy teacup. Tick. Tick… Tick. In three ticks, lacy cup has been removed from its matching saucer. Seven ticks before its contents have been stolen. Five ticks before before lacy cup is returned to its saucer, emptied. Hollowed out and no longer of service. The ticks of the clock a distant thing, now.

Lacy cup is taken away. Cleaned up, tenderly. Warm water, flowery suds, and the gentle thrum of a soothing pop song played from the back of the kitchen. That familiar voice hummed along, as their hands cleaned lacy teacup with a soft cloth. Then came the chilled rinse. Another towel wrapped around lacy teacup. Warm and dry. It did its job well, as it had for the last few years. A low whisper, as lacy teacup is dried, “look at ye shine. A marvel of your own. Yer pink porcelain, and that golden lace.”

The day that lacy teacup got it’s golden lace was a hard day. Broken, and uncertain, lacy teacup had been put back together with tender care. Lacy teacup had been reunited with its owner in a flurry of glee that day, and every day since.