a lover's brew
For three days now they have spoken in words that are meant to be cold and distant. It is meant to be a peace making gesture. This trip across the miles.
But they aren't making peace. Only tea.
The water in the kettle is rolling to a boil. She dropped the tea bag inside and the wispy wafts of steam mist the face. They sit across the table. Hands and feet studiously tucked away. Sipping on tea that warmed the hands, but not the heart. He looked at her and saw the creases on her forehead that seemed to belong to someone older, her bloodshot eyes, her calloused fingers and uneven, chipped nails. He looked away before he saw her wet eyelashes, her trembling lips and the familiar wedding ring on her right hand.
"Milk?"
"No, thank you."
They are well mannered even while their tragedy is unfolding all over the kitchen floor. The universal question, the question that rotated in his mind like an annoying screensaver for the past 10 years appeared once again - What is love?
Is it a chemical reaction or a biological need? Is it conspicuously seen or subletly felt? Are people allowed to feel lonely even when they found someone to love? Is love felt heavy on the heart or light in the soul? Are people in love supposed to never run out of things to say? With passing time, is love supposed to feel comfortable like a pair of worn slippers or possesses the unpredictablity of an endless roller-coaster? Does love sweep past fast and furiously, or settles down slowly and gently like the white flakes in a snowglobe? When do people stop trying to love when love doesn't seem like love anymore? The same man who knew how to balance a balance sheet, the NASDAQ stock market, physics and theology...realised that he did not know what is love.
He had never believed in God but he found himself praying silently for answers as he drank. He looked down into his mug, wishing it were a crystal ball which could tell him what to do. But there were no solutions in the dregs of the dark brew that he could see.
But they aren't making peace. Only tea.
The water in the kettle is rolling to a boil. She dropped the tea bag inside and the wispy wafts of steam mist the face. They sit across the table. Hands and feet studiously tucked away. Sipping on tea that warmed the hands, but not the heart. He looked at her and saw the creases on her forehead that seemed to belong to someone older, her bloodshot eyes, her calloused fingers and uneven, chipped nails. He looked away before he saw her wet eyelashes, her trembling lips and the familiar wedding ring on her right hand.
"Milk?"
"No, thank you."
They are well mannered even while their tragedy is unfolding all over the kitchen floor. The universal question, the question that rotated in his mind like an annoying screensaver for the past 10 years appeared once again - What is love?
Is it a chemical reaction or a biological need? Is it conspicuously seen or subletly felt? Are people allowed to feel lonely even when they found someone to love? Is love felt heavy on the heart or light in the soul? Are people in love supposed to never run out of things to say? With passing time, is love supposed to feel comfortable like a pair of worn slippers or possesses the unpredictablity of an endless roller-coaster? Does love sweep past fast and furiously, or settles down slowly and gently like the white flakes in a snowglobe? When do people stop trying to love when love doesn't seem like love anymore? The same man who knew how to balance a balance sheet, the NASDAQ stock market, physics and theology...realised that he did not know what is love.
He had never believed in God but he found himself praying silently for answers as he drank. He looked down into his mug, wishing it were a crystal ball which could tell him what to do. But there were no solutions in the dregs of the dark brew that he could see.
Labels: fiction
