We used to share cups of tea. I’d take the first sip and then pass it on to you. We did this almost everyday for a year or so. I’d talk while you sipped. You’d talk while I sipped. But we’d never talk to each other while sharing tea. That was against the unwritten rules we both knew about but never spoke of. We held conversations with ourselves, just kind of thinking out loud. And when we were done, we’d go on with our normal lives, not speaking a word about what we just did.

“I am really beginning to doubt I’ll ever get out of this state of mind,” you’d say, almost in a whisper, as I sipped my tea and wondered which state of mind you were referring to. I remember on bad days when you said the most poetic things, I’d purposely sip slower to hear you talk longer. One time you rambled on about your idea of heaven. There was less than an inch of tea left when this happened, so I only pretended to sip. I swallowed gulps of air so you’d keep talking. I absorbed every word you spoke and heard it like a song. Until you started crying, that is. Crying because you didn’t even believe in heaven, crying because you didn’t believe in anything anymore. And that’s when I handed you the teacup. You gulped it down before I could even think of anything to say. And then we stopped, because we always stopped when we ran out of tea.

It’s been a year now and we don’t talk as much. In fact you don’t really talk to much of anyone anymore, and you’re never in the mood for tea.

-aubrey