It Started With a Broken Teacup

“I’ll kill him. He broke my damn teacup.” Zadie yelled as I sat and sipped my beer. I wanted to roll my eyes but knew better. Instead, I kept my eyes glued to the beer bottle.

“Do you know how long I’ve had it?” I looked at her after a too long pause. She was looking at me expectantly, like she was waiting for an answer. No not an answer but the obligatory response.

I complied. “How long?”

She let out a deep sigh and spoke wistfully. “Almost my whole goddamn life.”

The teacup in question was part of a set. It was a small delicate looking tea set, not likely meant for children. But her parents had thought it was just perfect for her. She’d told me stories about her as a child playing with it, hosting pretend tea parties with her dolls. How quant I always thought. I didn’t know anybody else who’d actually had actually done that. I’d always thought it was something made up for tv and movies. Tea parties, really?

“He" was the boyfriend of the past three years, Mark, selfish asshole extraordinaire. They’d broken up at least ten times and I gave up having an opinion after the second. If she was stupid enough to keep taking him back or run to him because she got lonely, that was none of my business. But still she vented to me, as if I was going to tell her to get rid of him. I’d learned better, for the sake of our friendship I listened but kept my mouth shut.

I’d often thought about how much happier she’d be without him, pondering the idea of taking him out myself. It’d be pretty damn easy, he’s usually too drunk to function. She continued talking as I daydreamed about the different ways he could die. “He says it was an accident. But I just know he did it on purpose.”

I wondered what it would feel like to cut into him with one of the sharp little teacup pieces. How would it feel to watch as the life fades from his eyes? TV shows and movies give the impression that killing changes a person completely. There’s always somebody giving a speech about being better than the bad guys. Once you step over that line there’s no way to ever go back, but the hero will save you from yourself. More make-believe. There are no heroes, we’re all the bad guy in somebody’s story.

“You should kill him.” I blurted out.

“I should.” She nodded, firmly agreeing. I knew she didn’t really mean it. Although there was a slight glint in her eye.

“I bet one of these little pieces could easily slice his throat. Imagine it, death by teacup. Talk about karma.” I must have shown too much enthusiasm. She gave me an inquisitive look. I thought, oh shit I’ve gone too far. I laughed and said, “Just kidding, don’t look at me like that.”

She laughed. “I know.” But she gave me a final assessing look before walking away. The pieces of the teacup were laid out on the table in front of me. Most of it had shattered into tiny shards. There were only one or two pieces big enough to hold. She came back holding the trash can. Quickly, I got up, grabbed it from her and pushed the pieces into the can. Then held it back out to her.

She hesitated before saying thank you. When she walked away, I opened hand and looked. I’d managed to palm one nicely size piece unnoticed. I slipped it into my pocket, then told her I had to go.