Tepid Tea

I don’t sleep much these days.

Instead, I pad around the house in those ridiculous fuzzy purple slippers you gave me last year as a peace offering for the anniversary you got too drunk to remember. I watch the lights in the high-rises across the way flicker on and off on floors being cleaned by people being paid minimum wage.

There’s a hole in the toe of my right slipper. I pad a lot, these days.

I pretend the banks of lights sweeping on and off are dire signals, like when I was little and mom told me to flash the back porch light as a warning to the neighbours if He tried to break into the house again. Tungsten Morse code.

I light the stove, put the kettle on, slide open the porch door, spark a smoke, sit on my heels.

The distance between us is gathering stale air. It’s settling in my bones, making them ache. I pretend I can see right into your bedroom window. You’re not sleeping well again and I watch as your eyes flutter. It’s so easy to see you’re conflicted.

I think about calling you, waking you up, seeing if you’re ready to talk about the hurt, but the kettle whistles and instead I make chamomile tea and pet the cat and return to perch on the edge of the porch where I pretend to watch you some more.

You blame me for so much. It’s true, I didn’t have to sleep with him or get so distant or hang up on you or say bad things to people I knew would tell you eventually. You didn’t have to lie to me or trade our time together to get high or spend all our money on ways to keep the party going or tell me to kill myself.

My big toe gets cold, so I go back inside where it’s damp with dark. I crawl into bed still clutching the cup of tea I’ve not sipped yet and I sit with my back propped against the headboard and I sing till I get so loud the neighbour next door pounds a fist on the wall.

The clock, it says 3:17, the little dot illuminating AM. I don’t have much concept of time these days.

I turn on the bedside lamp and look at the bruises on my legs. This one here, it’s new. I don’t remember seeing it yesterday. I push my thumb into it and get sad when it doesn’t hurt much.

The cat, he sniffs my tea and takes a lick. It’s not even warm any more. Tepid tea.

I put the cup down on the dresser beside the other four cups still full with rotting tea and I slide down the bed, pulling blankets over my head. I kick my feet and let the comforter fall, the same way you used to shake the sheets over me when it got too hot to sleep.

I think about calling you to come shake the sheets over me, but it’s not hot out and I would be silly to ask you to shake them when it’s cold.

xoxo,
M.L. H’art