The Teacup

The broken teacup shards littered the floor. He stilled, his ears straining for sound – but she didn’t move, of course she wouldn’t move, she probably hadn’t even noticed that it was broken. She couldn’t see from where she was. And even if she had, she hadn’t gotten up for days…

It was an infectious thing, this state of mind she’d gotten herself into, so he could feel it too. It carried throughout the whole house. Sometimes it felt like the walls were caving in on them from the heaviness in the air.

Other times, it felt like she saw right past him – not that he could tell, but she never really felt there. And even though he knew it was highly unlikely she would have moved from her chair, he was always surprised to stumble into her there the next morning.

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She called from the drawing room, wondering what was keeping him. He shot up, almost bumping his head against the plastic chandelier, he always hit it. He could never tell exactly where it was – and he scrambled toward the cupboards and began to feel for a new teacup.

But he stopped.

He felt guilty. And he knew that, eventually, she’d find the broken shards on the floor – there was no way he could find and hide them all. So he fell to his knees again, until he managed to find one broken shard – it was sharp and pricked his finger a little, but he wrapped his fist around it tightly and got up again.

He walked to her side carefully, tracing his hands against the wall to feel his way back. There were crevasses there; from where he had traced the patterns in the wall over and over again.

The teacup had been a gift from her mother. An old, ancient thing that shouldn’t even be used. But sentiment often outweighed practicality. Besides, it was the only thing she would drink out of anymore.

Had it really been three months since? It felt longer than that. And shorter. He remembered how people had come up to them – one by one – offering their apologies. He would press their messages into her palm, translating as fast as he could. All the while, she was oddly still and oddly quiet. Like she was now.

He felt for her hand, but she brought it to his. He pressed the broken piece into her palm. He wanted to say something more, but he was limited – she was limited. She said nothing, so he had no way to gauge a reaction. Then she felt him press shapes into his hand.

Wait.

He heard her chair scraping backward as she got up. He waited anxiously, wondering what she was up to. It didn’t take her long to return though; she took up his hand again-- he felt pressure. And something sticky. A band-aid? He hadn’t realized he’d been bleeding.

Tentatively, he put a hand on her cheek. The corner of her lip was upturned – slightly. It wasn’t quite a smile. But it was something.