Thursday, January 31, 2008

Two teacups

Created from a prompt for a writing exercise.

There are two teacups in my brain—dainty, gold-edged porcelain painted blue-green. I keep them there for us, my muse and I, despite that I say I have no muse. They are delicate, their underside as white as his skin, and from these cups we sip when we need to have discussions that I would never publicly admit occur.

Often he, who I claim does not exist, complains that it is tea and not coffee, and perhaps we could have some sweets, too, or those tiny cucumber sandwiches without the crusts.

That would be pretentious, I say.

True, says he, but in this place for just you and I, we can admit we’re often pretentious.

Yes, and indulgent.

He drops another sugar cube into the tiny cup, and suggests our meeting place could use some new art on the walls, or at least a bookshelf—something to change it up. Keep things fresh.

This leads to a discussion of where to find what might be missing. Good. It keeps us from having to address I don’t know what I’m doing, and he doesn’t know what comes next.

We don’t discuss my denial of his existence. That would be rude.

Instead, he selects another sucrose sacrifice and calmly inquires if I’ve read any good books lately.

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