Here I sit, in my office with a book playing in my ears. A much loved title being brought to life and read lovingly by a stranger with a soothing voice. My cup is a steaming bath of bitter tea kissed by the sweetness of berries and mint.
I take a break from my beloved figures, my orderly columns of numbers that march where I direct them and show me the wins or sins of my business. I drink deeply, letting the warmth seep into me–first the tongue, then the throat, a warm flush between my breasts as the tea travels to my belly to sooth and calm me.
I take in the scent as I sit, staring at this word document. Thinking about what to write. So much raw material has flowed into so many saved pages. Saved, but unpublished because they are all found lacking. Or are too raw at this time. Or are simply proved to be nothing but my minds detritus.
The tea is almost gone. I swirl the cup in my left hand, careful not to think to deeply about it despite how everyone KNOWS you cannot transmit your intentions with your off hand. A thing I learned as a girl, drinking tea at a carnival in Germany. The woman selling the tea simply passed this knowledge to me freely, a small American child standing scared of the crowd next to her Father’s legs.
I drink off the excess and peer into the cup. My brain plays merrily over the pattern of the leaves, trying to LOOK for nothing and simply SEE.