I am sitting in the living room.
No, no... that's not right.
The kitchen, then.
Yes, the kitchen.
I am sitting in the kitchen,
and I am drinking tea
in the manner with which all troubled people drink tea:
with my hands wrapped around the mug
the way one would cradle a baby bird
that had fallen, head-first, from a tree.
And there must be a metaphor there, somewhere, for the
ways in which tea-drinking is like living
is like falling
is like being cradled,
but the warmth of the ceramic and the scent of peppermint
is too distracting and, at any rate, I'm not much of a thinker
and the thought of drinking my tea in the manner with which
all troubled people drink tea is causing enough grief as it is.
So, I let the steam uncurl under my chin and stare through the
window at the magpies in the poplar (all of whom have managed
to refrain from falling out of trees) before returning my gaze to the
pages spread out on the table, mapping the story of the future of
a person I don't yet know and whom I'm very anxious to meet.
I hope they drink tea.