Over A Cup of Tea

Over A Cup of Tea

It was over a cup of tea I first noticed how beautiful you actually were. It appeared to me like a vision of some kind of spiritual nature through the light smoke rising from my hot beverage. The morning sun spilled slowly over the horizon and lit up your face perfectly, like a stage in an old fancy theatre; a respected one with velvet drapes hanging from the walls and important people in the front rows.

Your eyes peering curiously out our kitchen window, the one you had been asking me all week to paint once the spring comes. From the outside it appeared rustic, but a closer look would reveal a paint job done in a hurry, the glass itself was dirty and it had small cracks and scratches hidden in plain sight.

Your hands grasping your cup, fingers intertwined as they pierced through the ceramic loop. I found myself adoring your fingers, as my mind wandered back to the day they first had played with my hair; the first time they had traced a pattern down my chest to induce arousal on a cold Friday night several years ago.

I remember lying on my side, my left hand supporting my head, my eyes fixated upon your face. You mimicked my appearance and your long hair, roughed from a night of passion, lay haphazardly across your face. We laughed and we smiled at each other for hours on end; both well satisfied with our first sexual encounter.

“What are you thinking about, sweetie?” you ask and suddenly I’m back in our kitchen, the cup warming my hands, numbing them. I smiled back at you and nonchalantly leaned back in my chair.

“That window needs fixing.” I commented, not wanting you to know just how badly I wanted to have you right then and there on the table; an hour of passion and heavy breathing as we would knock over our tea and our moans would echo throughout the room. Your body arching as I push inside you not caring just how on display we would have been if the neighbor suddenly had decided to take a stroll outside our window.

I noticed how your lips curved in their own special way every time you took a sip and how your throat moved upon swallowing. You didn’t know it, but I was falling more and more in love with each passing second.

I recalled sweet spring mornings running around in the fields outside our house. You in that thin, white cotton dress you know I love so much and you always wanted to run barefoot, skipping lightly over the damp weeds and grass as we made our way further and further away from the house.

It was in those fields, we knew it would be forever, our love spanning across decades and the days would fly by in a haze of green tea, movie nights and walks in the middle of the night, simply because we fancied it. Time, seemingly standing still, as I softly caressed your face as the wind blew across it, making your soft hair rise and fall over my hands. We were lying on our backs against the moist ground, looking up at the sky; blue, but with huge puffs of white cloud rapidly moving with the wind.


“What do you dream of?” you asked.
“Never growing old, staying here with you, forever.” I replied not caring how melodramatic it sounded; the truth rarely is original.

The sound of birds singing and the slow heavy breath of the trees created a symphony surrounding us and we were together in the early burnings of a new morning sun. Beauty was all that ventured here.

“More tea, honey?”
“Yes, please.”
“What flavor?”
“Green tea.”

A normal dialogue between to people who love each other, but it wasn’t until that morning in the kitchen I understood; the underlined power of three words not spoken, that lingering kiss after a long hard day of work and turmoil, the simplest touch of my cheeks that send me flying higher than anyone has ever been before.

Though the little actions that summarize it all, the act of putting the right pieces of a grander puzzle together may not seem all that paramount or even be the highlight of one’s day.

But, through the smoke of that particular cup of steaming hot tea, I came to realize the importance of letting you know.

I love you.