Tea Time

My comfort was tea because of him.

I suggested the microwave, and he was mortified.

He wanted a cup of tea at my place, after sex and before we parted. Tea was like home for him,

a sign of vulnerability, of routine.

I loved tea, but it never crossed my mind. I learned it as a cure and not a fixture.

So I bought a kettle, as a sign of love for both of us. Suddenly, tea was so accessible, and I was enthralled. I began drinking tea every day,

all flavors, all kinds,

created a tea corner in my apartment, wanted guests to get as excited as I was,

but they didn't, just him. Tea became part of our routine together, the way he smiled at me when I handed him a mugful.

Tea was our comfort until it wasn't. After he left,

I longed for someone to make tea for. I put care in each cup, and I wanted to share that. Instead,

I learned to share it with myself.

A cup of tea every morning, tailored to my mood,

English breakfast to wake up, chai to feel warm and confident, mint to snap me into focus, camomille to feel centered and calm, a tea for every state of being,

figured out by listening to my body and asking what it needs. The process was soothing,

the gentle selection, the sound of ripping open the packet, the pouring of the water, the dunking of the bag,

the colors, both sharp and cloudy, as the tea danced its way throughout the mug, the rising steam slithering into the air;

a mesmerizing ritual.

Everything about it became comfort for me. Tea was reliable, yet seductive; I'd bring the mug to my lips, knowing it was still too hot, letting air flow from my mouth and onto my comfort to help it cool off, going in for the sip anyway,

just to feel that first rush of warmth drift down my body. Taking slow, cautious sips for a while, feeling ecstasy when the tea reached that "just right" stage. If you're a tea drinker, trust me,

you know. Sometimes finishing it all before it got cold, sometimes missing the mark,

loving every minute regardless. Tea warms you up and chills you out and never lets you down.

The safety, the comfort, the joy of it all;

gripping a warm mug during a stressful work meeting,

shuffling to the kitchen to make some when I couldn't sleep,

buying new mugs that made me smile,

using tea to cure my ailments the way my mom had years ago.

Before he left, tea had been ours, but over time, I made it mine. He came back into the picture eventually, slowly,

and in a different way. There's no resentment; we're at peace. My comfort was tea because of him. Now my comfort is tea

because of me.