Sunday Tea

Drawing the curtains, she surveyed the mood of this Sunday morning. She was met with a pale April sky and a soft breeze dancing through the trees – they were young and stood proudly, having survived another harsh and venomous winter. Days like this were veiled by a rose-tinted haze, and would be tucked away forever – like dried flowers, pressed between the pages of her memory.

She slipped into a white sundress – his favorite one. It was the one she had been wearing the day he had proposed, that day on the beach when the sky had been endless, when it had seemed like the sun would never go down. The one she wore every Sunday. She laced up the back and smoothed the skirt, then brushed her hair and applied color to her face, paying extra attention to her lips.

Down in the kitchen, she put on the old copper kettle. It rattled and whistled happily – it only ever got use on Sundays. From the cabinet over the sink, she unveiled a delicate, clear glass tray. It was Norwegian craftsmanship, adorned with hand-painted creeping vines and rosebuds and plump bluebirds with berries in their beaks. Out came a matching tea set: a teapot, two wavy-rimmed saucers, and two teacups – tea for two.

She pushed open the back doors, and was surprised to find that he was already in the garden, lounging in his chair. His long legs were extended under the table, and his face was turned towards the sun, eyes blissfully shut. Just as it did every Sunday, her heart jumped once at the sight of him, then began to beat uncontrollably against her chest, like a hummingbird’s wings against a window.

“You’re already here!”

He smiled broadly, still facing the sky. “Yes, yes I am.”

She crossed the path into the garden, gripping the handles of glass tray with trembling hands. The teacups rattled in their plates, and the milk sloshed nervously in its little blue pitcher.

He opened an eye at last; grinned at her lazily. “Hello, my love.”

Flushing, she placed the tea down in the center of the wrought iron table, then poked and prodded at its contents until everything was just right, just so.

“Let me just hang some laundry and then I’ll come sit with you. Will you pour the tea in the meanwhile?”

“Yes, my love. Take your time. I have time today.”

She hummed gaily to herself as she pinned up the wet gowns and stockings and slips. A messy, fragile little cluster of purple was growing beneath the clothesline, feeding off of the weekly laundry rain shower. 

“Two sugars?” he called out.

“Just one. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth these days.”

Leaving the empty basket in the grass, she went to join him at the table. Wispy steam was curling from the teacups. She would wait until the tea had cooled; he was already sipping at his – he had never been a patient man.

 “Hope you don’t mind that I let myself in,” he said. “The lock on the back gate is broken, did you know?”

“Yes, it is. Remember how the lock used to rust every spring, from all the rain? And you would put on your rubber boots –the ones that went to your knees, you know– and go out into the muddy, mucky garden to replace it.” She sighed, her eyes bright with nostalgia. “And when you came inside I’d make you tea, and you’d complain about the mud, but I knew you didn’t mind because at least we had a working lock.”

“Yes. I’m sorry I can’t fix it now.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

The neighborhood children were shouting in the street – they were playing with the remnants of what had been unveiled by the melted snow : marbles that had been presumed to be lost forever, tattered ropes from broken summer tire swings, sodden bright red playing cards that were now just a part of the asphalt.

“My love, you’re growing thin. And where is the color in your cheeks? I wish you would go out into the world and enjoy the spring. If I wasn’t such a selfish man I'd tell you to forget me. You could be happy.”

“I’m only ever happy on Sundays.” She did not have to say that forgetting him was impossible, that she would die if she even tried. This was all said in the lines in her face, and in the way she did not meet his eyes.

He smiled sadly, took a final sip of his drink, and placed the teacup down. It made no sound as it met the plate. “You must find a way to be happy all the other days, too.”

“I don’t want to. Not without you.” She hugged her arms to her rib cage, feeling that if her head got any lighter, the breeze would lift her up and carry her body away.

“Oh, my darling. I have to go now - see? The sun is setting. You’ve wasted your whole day away.”

“It’s not a waste; time with you is never a waste – oh, please don’t go just yet. I want to look at you. I want to touch you. I’d waste an entire lifetime if it meant I could sit here with you.”

But there was no answer, and there was no more him. She was alone in the garden, her chest rising and falling to the sounds of the dying day. She sat there for a few moments, unmoving, eyes fixed unseeingly on the empty chair across from her. The sky was now orange and pink - violent, angry. The clothes hanging on the line had dried hours ago, and were billowing softly in the evening breeze. A row of ghosts. Then, in a trancelike state, she pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. With the softest of gestures, she gathered the plates and the saucers and the little rosebud teacups. One was stained with lipstick; the other, untouched, the tea gone cold. Her lace dress clinging sadly to her aging body, she crossed the round stone path back to the house, a widow in white once again.