Author’s Note: Here is the process by which this little incidental came to be.
**My IM status reads: what to write? what to write?** Friend: write about the steam rising off of the first cup of tea in the morning. 😉 Me: Hmm, a descriptive piece. Nice! *tucks that away in her piece-bag for later*
So here it is, written (of course) first thing in the morning.
= = =
I watched as she took the ceramic mug that contained her beverage and moved over to the window-seat to curl up in its corner. The day was still dark, the room quiet, and I watched. I watched as she held the cup lovingly in her hands, cherishing its warmth on this bitter mid-winter Saturday. And the steam seemed to respond.
Grateful for not being blown away instantly, as an immature child would do, it rose to meet her, to inspect this perspicacious woman. Serpentine and smooth, it gathered and poured from the surface of her mug, reaching up shadowy tendrils to caress her cheeks tenderly, craftily steal a kiss off her lips, and tease her like the coyest of beaus, stroking the tip of her nose. It grazed up into her ear and whispered bergamot-scented promises of warmth and relaxation, yet with a hint of elegant class and tradition. It curled around the shell of her ear and sighed anecdotes of white gloves, hidden novels, and sunny parlors, stories to charm even the most pragmatic of females.
I watched her smile, even blush a little bit. Or maybe that was just the heat of her drink? The shiver of steam’s warmth as it hits your skin and suddenly cools against your own balmy temperature? Or maybe I had made her tea a little too strong? A little too brazen in its flavor? Either way, I would hold afterward, for forever and a day, that a woman could actually be flirted with by the tea in her cup.