3 teacups

You never thought you’d be able to juggle safety and absurdity so well, yet here you are. You’re looking at your wife, her face flushed, her hair a mess from an abrupt, sudden wake up call in the middle of the night. All she wanted was tea.

Tea for you. Tea for her. Tea for your son.

“Would you be a dear and get us a pot of tea, I’m parched,” she had said to the stewardess, who looked ghost white in the face, nodding but her eyes said something else as she walked out of their stateroom.

You’re holding onto three teacups by the handles as your son is in your arms. Your other hand is dangling, like a unbaited hook, waiting for your wife to come and take it.

“New York, Adrian, just imagine it in Christmas time!” Your wife had said to you in a singing, gentle voice. “All lit up and magical.”

“You always dream bigger than big, Darling,” You said back, kissing her forehead.

Back when you first met her, she was a twenty something beauty with the rosiest cheeks and a teacher in a small schoolhouse. She taught mathematics and writing for young grade students.

But what got you was that signature, uproarious laugh. So unashamed. So loud. It was unlike anything you ever heard before.

You were brought up in an austere world where God was a savior and a prison all in one. The prison was built on a foundation of penance, prayer and discipline. Discipline that involved a firm hand and the end of a belt buckle. You believed the prison was the safest place to be as a child.

“Just like God said, if you eat honey, eat only just what you need, too much?” Your father had paused for dramatic effect, leaning on a stool as he put on his shoes for work, “You’ll vomit.”

But you didn’t listen for long. Once you heard of this epic voyage, taking your wife and your young child away with what little coin you had left after buying these blasted first class tickets.

You didn’t want your family in a room with rats. You wanted luxury for once in your life.

You didn’t grow up poor but you didn’t grow up rich either. You had a single maid growing up to establish your status but they often changed faces and there were often gaps in between jobs and money troubles.

You wanted something more for your family. You wanted much more.

“You, you, you. Isn’t that all you’ve ever cared about? I should’ve put the whip to you more oft, I should’ve,” your mother said the day before you left on your trip, bags in hand.

You feel a tight grip on your loose hand. It takes you back to reality, where the past is stuck deep down inside and the future is blinding you. The tight grip of your wife’s hand is keeping you from falling apart. The tea never seems to be coming. The rustling on the other cabins starts with small bursts of commotion outside their door. Rushed footsteps scurry up and down the halls. You even caught wind of several muffled arguments and shouts of, “Life jackets!” which made you feel even more unease.

“Y’know dear, I never cared about being in first class to begin with. Those stuck-up stukes only talk about themselves and how they believe they’re the masters of the universe,” your wife joked. You let out a chuckle, then an exasperated sigh.

“They’re the masters of something, but I wouldn’t say exactly what it was in polite conversation,” you tried to joke back.

She let out a loud cheer and a grin.

Your son laughed too. “Mama,” your son cooed, as your wife took him to her bosom.

The three tea cups stare back at you. Where did everyone go?

You’re suddenly in a deep, dark place. It’s worse than that. You cannot find your family. Your wife. Your son. No one.

Three tea cups at the bottom of the ocean.

Your wife is checking the kettle. The water can’t boil in the sea.

The waves feel different deep down in the ocean. They squirm, they shuffle, they bubble. You feel a sting of your wife’s tears hit your lips. Salty.

“I like my tea with just a small spoonful of sugar. No milk,” your wife bubbles, sounding like her words are underwater, like a blocked echo. Like a fish tying to imitate a human, you joked. Your son giggled.

You’re all about to have your tea. Your money floated into the abyss. The abyss didn’t stare back. Nietzsche was wrong, your wife chuckled.

From what you can tell you see the city skyline of New York’s buildings, the city that shimmered something hopeful once, so deeply in your heart. You’d do anything for your family. To have a chance. A great opportunity.

You took your family to the life boats. You still have those bloody tea cups, so frivolous.

Women and children only, the crew says.

But I have three tea cups, you say quietly.

Christmas in New York, you think, picturing it as you grip the handles, all 3 together. Those blasted first class tickets. Your wife is impatiently waiting for the water to boil. You check it every few minutes to ensure it’s ready.

Those three tickets were supposed to get you all there. You remember how your wife’s uproarious laughter woke up something dormant once thought dead inside of you, like a spark.

All lit up.