Tea when you can’t sleep

“I can’t sleep.” You push your elbow and go from lying on your side to sitting upright with this confession. You are giving up pretending you have “sleep” right where you want it. Your feet meet the floor with ease because your twin air mattress is basically a half step away from sleeping on the cold hardwood. This isn’t a complaint though. You’re getting by alright. Better than being at your parents on their nice comfortable bed they bought you. You’re just tired; everything else is fine. 

“Why don’t you come over,” they ask. You can hear some high pitched voice in the background and realize they’re watching some show you’ve seen, but can’t remember the name of at the moment.

 You’ve been sitting with your phone pressed to your ear for about three minutes now, complaining about your inability to just drift off and stay in the in-between land. You only called your best friend because you texted so damn tired and to your surprise, they responded back right away with a, needa get otp? Yes, yes you did. You didn’t realize it, but you needed to hear their voice so much so that your finger pressed the call button before you finished reading the sentence. Yes, of course, you needed that softness to meet your eardrums and for your mind to still. Of course. 

“What?”

 Why is your heart quickening? Your laptop screen turns from dim to dark in a blink of an eye, so you fix your eyes on the painting of a blue man staring with bloodshot eyes and downwards mouth. A different friend painted him a few years ago, and you recall the smile on their face as you handed them the cash you saved for a month to buy it at their very first market. You were, against your best attempt, their second customer. The first happened to be the one you’re speaking to. You vowed to never forgive them for coming before you, though you probably would’ve left right after buying it had it not been for wanting to stay a little longer to get to know them.

You frown. 

Maybe one day you’ll actually call them back. But, for that day to come, you have to wrestle with the fact that your skin feels all prickly and you clench your teeth whenever you see a painting of theirs in a new gallery or them collaborating with another artist. Jealousy. A sick and twisted thing you’re choosing to ignore for the betterment of the friend group.

“Yeah, why not? I was just watching this corny show. I haven’t felt like moving to turn to anything else, so you may as well get me out of this weird funk I’m in right now. Just come spend the night.” 

“Awww a sleepover? You want me to bring my duffel bag and bracelet making kit? We can solidify our friendship tonight as we make s’mores.” You try to sound like you’re kidding and aren’t actually ecstatic. Truthfully, you can think of nothing better than to be there…with them. And for that reason, in less than twelve minutes, you’re out the door and letting the wet leaves stick to your black gym shoes.

And for that reason, you’re on the train counting the stops till you get to theirs without realizing the headphones you have over your ears aren’t even playing anything.

And for that reason, you can’t help but to smile when they come to the door and ask, “I’m putting on some tea. Want some?”

Now, you’re sitting in their tiny, but cozy for a rainy night, kitchen. The stole feels slick and warm underneath you, and you twist and turn ever so slightly to keep yourself busy.

You watch the steam build stories and disappear as new ones approach. 

You’ve been waiting to see if they’d bring it up. Wondering if your absence was even noticed, or if it mattered really. You can’t tell if you want them to have cared.

“Where did you go though?” They’re standing with the neck titled slightly down, pouring the tea into a blue mug so carefully you think of it as an act of devotion.

Somewhere more inside. 

“I’ve been busy and tired. Sorry.” You offer this because you’ve practiced it already and haven’t considered digging through the truth to find words that fit your mouth and understanding of what is going on. 

They glance over at you, and nod before returning to pour some tea into a green mug. Once they’re finished, they hand you yours, and you almost jump as your fingers brush against theirs, but you contain yourself.

“Leo, bud,” they coo at the cat but you imagine you’re being called. You’d meow for them, at least once. You smile at yourself for the silly thought and watch as they make their way over to Leo, who’s on top of the silver spice rack.

You realize your eyes are tearing up. You know what this is about. You want to tell them everything, but it’s all too hard. You want them to help you lay it all down so you can get some much-needed rest.

“What?”

“Nothing. Something’s in my eye. Can’t see.” You rub your perfectly fine eyes and see another time unfold. 

The first time behind the wheel of their car. You could barely see out in front of the parking lot because of the fog.

“Push the seat up.” You complete three more steps; putting on your seatbelt, checking the mirrors, putting the key in the ignition.

“Easy now.” They pause as you put it into neutral. Then, you get into the zone. You’ve done this a few other times with a teacher, but it has been a while and you notice your palms getting sweaty from the nerves.

It is quiet as you two go along in the middle of an empty parking lot.

“Good. Good.” 

“Slow down.” 

Then it happens. Empty car lot. A light pole. Of course this happens to you.

You apologize profusely, offering your life savings and do this weird mix between a bow and scared shrug. They lift your lowered chin and you see yourself with a little red spilling from your eyebrow in their phone’s camera. 

“You’re matching the car now. We know the car needs to be repaired…” you try to turn your head to see it again, “Ahh ahh at a later date. More importantly, do you need to be repaired? Go to the ole human doc? How many fingers am I holding up?” 

“I’m fine. I just scratched myself when I reached up.” 

They give a faint smile, wipe off the blood with their sleeve, kiss your forehead so softly, and nod all within two seconds. You think of it as the best two seconds of your life.

Neither of you speak of that moment.

Just like tonight’s moment that comes later.

No, neither of you speak of them holding your hand as you cried into the pillow; you told them it just gets this way when the year ends, and this time, you’re not so sure how to handle it all. They whisper some things that you can’t really connect with in the midst of your muffled sobs, but you’re sure they’re doing their best to comfort you in the dark, and you try to let them. 

Neither of you speak of them telling you about how hard it is some days to say “No,” to a drink, how they saw the issue coming from a mile away and they’re afraid of it like a monster in the dark some nights. Every corner has a liquor store when you’re feeling blue. You didn’t know what to say to this, only remembered you watching them throw back shot after shot most nights and only intervening once it was too late. 

Neither of you speak of them being scared of moving and starting over, though you promise to visit and they promise to visit and there’s so many ways to connect nowadays. No mention of the time your eyes stayed on theirs in the kitchen and they noticed, no mention of the way their foot grazed yours and stayed put, the way their lips met your forehead, met your nose, then slowly at your met your lips over the salt of your tears. No mention of how youre the one who pushed your neck back to make sure they made their way there. 

Suddenly, it’s the next morning. You’re in the kitchen, like how it started, thinking

I’m glad I wasn’t the first customer.

And they’re pouring more tea, as Leo rubs against your legs.