Teatime?

As requested, I'm going to post the short story mentioned earlier. Constructive critisism is welcome, heck regular critisism is good too. I think it sucks, didn't have time to finetune it or create any kind of a plot so expecting the shot down in flames part that is to follow...

Teatime

The tea sits steaming on the counter. I see it there as a symbol of the new day. Mum always makes a cup to start her day off and today I have woken up early enough to see it. She has her breakfast and as usual it’s something healthy. Normally it’s eggs or cereal. The ‘cereal’ cannot possibly fall under that category once it’s had wheat germ, oat bran and all other number of toppings added to it. You can be sure that there’s going to be some unsweetened organic yoghurt in there as well. I take a long shower, fogging up the mirror and leave a message on the glass shower door. The fan begins suck the cool air under the door and I leave the bathroom quickly to get dressed.

The heater I have in my room rarely gets used. It looks like a gas heater which is missing the other three quarters of it. Nevertheless, it has beaten my cold room into submission and it is slightly warmer than the rest of the house. I used to live in an old apartment which was one of eight in a mayoral house from the 1890s. It had huge twelve foot ceilings and a gloriously large living room with a fireplace. You could close the french doors, which presumably once opened onto the veranda and the place would be super toasty in the morning. But that was Toowoomba, and this is Brisbane. Don’t even get me started on Canada.

I leave the house to be greeted with the sun. If it was like many children’s drawings, today it would have a face and it would be smiling. It warms my skin and I have a quick thought wishing it would brown it too. When I returned from the ‘great white north’ I was practically translucent. I jiggle the key in the car door, and the door opens with the usual troll-fingers-grating-on-steel sound. I fall into the seat that has had so many bums in it that have moulded to create a large dip which defies any existence of springs, past or present. It is difficult to get out of, like a beanbag, comfy enough until you want to get out. It feels good to be back in my old bomb, fast changing the gears just because I can and pushing the limits of the ‘four on the floor.’ The window is down and the tunes go floating out the window, distorted and senseless to those who I drive by.

I head to the library. My refuge. All those books to read: it’s daunting and exciting. A library is my metaphor for the world; so many places to discover. There are some you don’t understand and never will, some are fun, some are serious, some capture the essence of people and others the substance of a time past. There are those written in a language you cannot perceive or a religion you do not believe. It is all there. I choose to discover and explore. I want to escape to the world, to see what can be seen and to live the life that I can only imagine now.

At home, the tea sits cold on the counter. Time has passed and the business of the day has taken her up and made her forget the one thing that was to start her day off. Things have kept her away and busy and the cup lies on the bench, stranded in its current state. This cup of tea is me. It is the core of me. I have forgotten about that girl and her dreams to see the world. I have left her behind and she has lost hope, cold from sitting in one place becoming stagnant. Most of all, she has lost her appeal. No one wants to drink cold tea.

I stop at the small collection of shops on the way home to pick up a few things. Pep is the man who owns our local corner store. He’s added a deli section and some dessert treats while retaining the typical boxes of lollies that schoolchildren cluster around. Jenny is one of the ladies who works in the bakery, she has blond wavy hair and is the mother of a girl I went to primary school with. I don’t think she remembers me. Then there are the butcher boys in their white boots and blue and white striped aprons. There are always so many of them bustling around. They too have their own cycle with people constantly shifting through it.

I’m back home again, out in the backyard with a book. My cat is stretched out beside me and purring like a muted chainsaw. Her eyes are just about closed leaving that small slit with which to peer out and make sure that I am not going anywhere nor enjoying anything else but her company. The end of her tail twitches, like the dismissal of a flick of the hand. She walks past my line of vision butting her head against my face. Her nose is wet. I am brushing away hairs that she has left behind. Somehow they seem to have got in my nose. I can feel all ten claws kneading into my skin as she circles on my tummy for the ultimate position. It really doesn't matter which position is chosen because my cat will have all of the room, all of the time. With a cat you will find yourself either about to fall off your bed or crunched against the wall in an effort not to squash it. That’s just the way it is.

The tea sits steaming in the microwave. Mum has remembered it again beacuse I tried to throw it down the sink. The reply to my action was “I’m drinking that!” Could’ve fooled me. So now it’s reheated in the microwave. I can guarantee that it will sit there again until it is cold and then be reheated again. For now it is hot. My life needs reheating. I need to get the fire under me again and point myself in a direction. I have always managed to do this quite by accident most times. I see a movie of a place I’d like to visit, so I visit the country nearby that is easier to get into and end up staying there for a year. I loved being in a totally new country. It has different cycles, the day to day cycle is different, the season to season cycle is different and I’m sure if I were there still the year to year cycle would be different also. People go in cycles too. Many don’t have the decency to realise when they are in a cycle so short that it’s boring to everyone else.

I feel like I’ve interrupted the cycle by leaving one and coming into another. That I’ve left something behind that was moving forward fast and coming to another smaller cog wheel that is turning so slowly.

I stop reading as my eyes are getting sore from the glare. I look up into a sky that everyone on this earth is under. We all have this common bond yet we are all flourishing as such separate entities.

The tea sits cold in the microwave. The end of the day has come; darkness comes when five o’clock calls. It’s leftovers tonight which this time, I actually don’t mind as it’s pea and ham soup. I make a salad for the three of us that I had at a friend’s place last week. It has brie cheese, orange, sprouts, mung beans, tomatoes, macadamia nuts and some baby spinach leaves. I put some French dressing on it to liven things up a bit. There is melted butter on toast and I even feel like having vegemite soldiers.

I don’t have to wash up because I made the salad and reheated the soup. If you cook, you don’t clean up. That is by far the best household rule created. When things have settled down, mum reading a book and dad trying to work out how to get email on his blackberry, I slip outside with a blanket. I sit on the grass in the front yard and lift my face to the night air. The wind glides over my chin, then to my cheeks and slides off my forehead. I close my eyes as a salute to her power. The trees dance and wiggle their fingers, swaying to a rhythm we cannot hear. The planes pass by on her wings. Their lights blinking in the distance till they become as tiny as the stars; holes punched in the ceiling of the sky.

I eventually get too cold and reluctantly go inside. I wish to be out there in the branches, away from the street lights and the prying eyes of the neighbours. In my mind I am away in the cities of the world, looking in on friendly squares of light: seeing friends and discovering histories and people. There is plenty of tea left in the cupboard for tomorrow.