Tea for Two

It was Tuesday evening when I made that last pot of tea. I paused as I reached in the cupboard for the bright yellow teapot. It seemed almost too festive for evening tea, but it was my favorite. One for you, one for me, one for the pot, and that makes three-I sang the diddy in my head like my Granny used to as I added each scoop of tea leaves to the basket. I wondered if Granny ever made tea for more than two people, and if she did, was there a different song? The kettle's whistling broke my revelry, and I poured the steaming water into my sunshine teapot. Maybe it was too much for evening tea, but it made me smile, and as Granny always said, "tea time is me time and should be enjoyed."

I placed the teapot in the center of the tray between the teacups and saucers. Joined by a bowl of sugar cubes and a tiny honey jar, the tray was picture perfect and ready for teatime. Granny would be proud.

Sitting at the table, I poured myself a cup, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply. Chamomile, lavender, and mint wafted through the tendrils of steam from my teacup—the smell of a warm summer evening in the south; of weathered rocking chairs creaking on porch planks, cicadas singing their evening lullaby, and fireflies dancing against a backdrop of stars. 

But I wasn't on that southern summer porch. I was still sitting in the dimly lit dining room, my Alice in Wonderland teacup teasing me with "curiouser and curiouser" around the rim.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" I asked him. I stared at the man next to me; the love of my life turned stranger. His face had a bluish tint as he stared intently at the tiny screen before him. Eyes mindless in their focused intent, his laughs were odd guttural sounds uttered slightly under his breath. 

"Hey. Would you like a cup of tea?" Louder this time in hopes that maybe he would hear me over the drone of the YouTube video that held him captive.

"Uh-huh," he replied, eyes never wavering from the screen.

My hands shook, the teapot's spout clinked against the rim of his cup as I poured. Watching the steam rise from the cup, I made internal bets with myself on whether or not the tea would be cold before he took his first sip.

Savoring each sip of my own tea, I began to relax and enjoy the evening—the droning of his phone fading into the background. We sat no more than two feet apart, and it was one of the loneliest moments of my life. Alone together, how ironic. 

Finishing my tea, I stared into the bottom of my cup, willing the leaves to speak to me as they once whispered to my Granny. To give me answers and guidance, but they were steadfast in their silence, taunting me with hidden knowledge that would not be mine. "Curiouser and curiouser," the inscription on the cup joined forces with the tea leaves, mocking me and leaving me lost and confused. 

"I want a divorce." The words croaked and broke as they hitched in my throat. The sound of my voice startled me. My breath caught, and my stomach flipped, my body reacting to the shock of what I had just said. 

I held my breath expectantly, waiting for his anger to explode. But there was nothing. I dared a sideways glance at him, yet he was unchanged. Frozen by a self-imposed, technological Medusa, he remained the same barely-blinking, guttural statue as before.

An unfamiliar giddiness coursed through me. The tea leaves may not have spoken, but I had. And this was the first real and meaningful thing I had said in the longest time. I slowed my breathing and tried to quiet my mind. What was wrong with me?

I looked again at my husband, my best friend, my closest stranger. We had spent the last fifteen years navigating life together; joyous births and tearful deaths. Ups and downs, the ins and outs, he was my partner, and we were supposed to grow old together. But in the sum of fifteen years, we had grown closer and further apart, all in an instant. His phone had become a steady third party at dinner for many years, and now, it was taking its place front and center in our relationship.

I didn't look away as I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. "Did you hear me? I said I want a divorce." I felt like I owed him that much, at least. To be available for eye contact should he tear himself away. 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You should order one." His eyes blinked briefly but never wavered from his screen.

I felt a tear trail down my cheek as I studied the handsome stranger at my table. His strong jaw, the slope and bump of his nose, thick distinguishing eyebrows, and the thin line of his mouth; it was a profile I knew by heart and one I would miss. I looked away quickly. I would not carry this image with me. The slack jaw, parted lips with vision glazed over, no. I wanted to remember the gentle smile that would make my stomach flutter and the deep warm eyes that felt like home, reminding me he was once my safe place to land. 

I gathered my teacup and saucer and placed them on the tray. Tea time was over, and there was nothing to do but clean up. The empty cup with dried leaves stuck to the bottom, frozen in immutable silence, paled starkly next to the bright yellow teapot. I reached for his cup but paused. Untouched and cold, he and his teacup were mirrors, and I left them together under the blue-tinted glow of the phone. 

That was the Tuesday that saw the last pot of tea for two and the final pieces of my marriage, and both washed down in silence