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Description
Every morning before that morning, she had carefully scooped the twisted black leaves into the smooth porcelain belly of the teapot. With pleasure she drowned them in scalding water and sealed the mixture in with the clink of the rose-colored lid. The tea was ensconced in a little family of delicates: a tiny blue willow bowl of crystalline sugar cubes, a daintily ribbed teacup, and a rosaceous pitcher of thick cream. She loved all of it--the immaculate curvature of the china, the wafting fragrance of bergamot, the cool morning light that played gently with the soft colors. Her day was flawed—weak and prone to shatter—until she had constructed and surveyed her own fragment of perfection. She could not capture how this ceremony made her feel; there was no way for her to describe how the sinuous twists of steam illuminated her life and filled her body more than anything or anyone else could. The deep earthiness of the tea and the cleanliness of its accoutrements were mysterious to her, even after years worth of mornings. Years worth of cream blooming into steaming tea and carefully manicured fingers wrapped around easily fractured teacups. Years worth of lovers who spent their mornings sprawled in a soft linen sea, left to wake alone. There had never been anyone to share her tea with. There was no one who could partake in her solitude.

Every morning before that morning, her fingers stood poised against little china handles. Every morning before that morning, porcelain bumped softly against the gleaming enamel of her teeth.
Every morning before that morning, because on that morning, none of it mattered.

Description
Every morning before that morning, she had carefully scooped the twisted black leaves into the smooth porcelain belly of the teapot. With pleasure she drowned them in scalding water and sealed the mixture in with the clink of the rose-colored lid. The tea was ensconced in a little family of delicates: a tiny blue willow bowl of crystalline sugar cubes, a daintily ribbed teacup, and a rosaceous pitcher of thick cream. She loved all of it--the immaculate curvature of the china, the wafting fragrance of bergamot, the cool morning light that played gently with the soft colors. Her day was flawed—weak and prone to shatter—until she had constructed and surveyed her own fragment of perfection. She could not capture how this ceremony made her feel; there was no way for her to describe how the sinuous twists of steam illuminated her life and filled her body more than anything or anyone else could. The deep earthiness of the tea and the cleanliness of its accoutrements were mysterious to her, even after years worth of mornings. Years worth of cream blooming into steaming tea and carefully manicured fingers wrapped around easily fractured teacups. Years worth of lovers who spent their mornings sprawled in a soft linen sea, left to wake alone. There had never been anyone to share her tea with. There was no one who could partake in her solitude.

Every morning before that morning, her fingers stood poised against little china handles. Every morning before that morning, porcelain bumped softly against the gleaming enamel of her teeth.
Every morning before that morning, because on that morning, none of it mattered.