Olga Suvorova, Intercession 3
The Second Cup
Betty Stanton
Every afternoon at four, she makes tea for two.
After the funeral she started it to remember, as something to do to keep her hands busy. Then it became a habit. Now, it is a ritual. The kettle’s slow whistle, the sugar dissolving, the second cup placed across from her on the table. She didn’t pour it at first. Then one day she did. Now she always pours it along with hers.
The tea on the other side always goes cold, but it doesn’t matter. The cup sits there, steam fading, the faintest imprint of breath on the glass beside it.
Sometimes she sees movement in the chair opposite, a shift in the fabric, a flicker of weight settling. When that happens, she looks down at her hands and pretends not to notice.
Her neighbor says the window in the kitchen has never closed properly. That it is probably the draft that keeps it opening on its own. She says nothing, though once she thought about sealing it and didn’t. She wanted to leave it unfinished. She likes it that way, the air moving softly through the house, smelling faintly of rain and her wife’s perfume.
At night, she hears humming from the next room. Always the same tune, the one they used to hum when washing dishes together, standing hip to hip at the sink. The notes come low and steady, like a memory rehearsing itself.
Sometimes she catches herself talking aloud. Nothing important, just small things: the weather, the taste of the tea, the cat’s mischief. She never expects an answer. Once, she turned to say something out of reflex and caught a glimpse of her own shadow folding neatly onto the chair beside her, as if it knew to make space.
Nothing else ever answered her, not really. But sometimes the silence tilted its head, listening, and she has always tried to tell herself that that was enough.
Today she changes her mind and speaks her name, finally. The sound comes out small but certain.
Every light in the house hums. Not loud, just the low and steady vibration of old wiring that she can feel through her fingertips. The window opens wider, letting in the wind. The curtains lift. The tea in her cup ripples.
Across from her, the cup is empty.
She reaches over and touches it anyway. It is still warm.
Love, she thinks, and the feeling of her in the air lingers like steam–brief, visible, then gone.
Betty Stanton
Every afternoon at four, she makes tea for two.
After the funeral she started it to remember, as something to do to keep her hands busy. Then it became a habit. Now, it is a ritual. The kettle’s slow whistle, the sugar dissolving, the second cup placed across from her on the table. She didn’t pour it at first. Then one day she did. Now she always pours it along with hers.
The tea on the other side always goes cold, but it doesn’t matter. The cup sits there, steam fading, the faintest imprint of breath on the glass beside it.
Sometimes she sees movement in the chair opposite, a shift in the fabric, a flicker of weight settling. When that happens, she looks down at her hands and pretends not to notice.
Her neighbor says the window in the kitchen has never closed properly. That it is probably the draft that keeps it opening on its own. She says nothing, though once she thought about sealing it and didn’t. She wanted to leave it unfinished. She likes it that way, the air moving softly through the house, smelling faintly of rain and her wife’s perfume.
At night, she hears humming from the next room. Always the same tune, the one they used to hum when washing dishes together, standing hip to hip at the sink. The notes come low and steady, like a memory rehearsing itself.
Sometimes she catches herself talking aloud. Nothing important, just small things: the weather, the taste of the tea, the cat’s mischief. She never expects an answer. Once, she turned to say something out of reflex and caught a glimpse of her own shadow folding neatly onto the chair beside her, as if it knew to make space.
Nothing else ever answered her, not really. But sometimes the silence tilted its head, listening, and she has always tried to tell herself that that was enough.
Today she changes her mind and speaks her name, finally. The sound comes out small but certain.
Every light in the house hums. Not loud, just the low and steady vibration of old wiring that she can feel through her fingertips. The window opens wider, letting in the wind. The curtains lift. The tea in her cup ripples.
Across from her, the cup is empty.
She reaches over and touches it anyway. It is still warm.
Love, she thinks, and the feeling of her in the air lingers like steam–brief, visible, then gone.