iron goddess of mercy

One spoon. Two. Two and a half.

Water filled to a precarious four fifths. Spoon of wood, and fingers stay unscathed.

Swirl twice. Tilt once. Waft, gentle, just like that—don't sniff like a dog, idiot child.

The office was cold and gray and marble, and I sigh when I set down my tea. At the carefully shined coffee table, the small pot breathes out a bubble of flowers and warmth and golden dusk, and I inhale. Slowly, to savor, to understand.

Tieguanyin, my favorite oolong. Or was it? I'd never the time to decide.

The acquisition agreement sat by the woven tea tray. I was supposed to look it over, wasn't I? Better get to it, before legal sends over another one of those emails. But alas, the paper around the staple will remain free of a single fold, even as dawn would wash over the building.

I look around and remember: I didn't decorate this office.

I know I hated when people complimented that clumsy mahogany desk and those dusted moldings. I hated when people didn't speak a word either.

I hated the dark leather and the marble everything. I hated the floor-to-ceiling windows, hated the neighboring skyscrapers refracting the city lights across my walls, into my eyes. I hated shelves full of nameless titles, the cold glass over shiny degrees.

I hated glass. I hated how rushed fingers could smudge it, how empty office floors could shatter it. I hated how it took invisible space, how it was empty, how it was useless.

I watch the leaves swim in their porcelain pool, catching gold in the lamp light. Try to remember: Was it a one-finger tab on the table that signalled to the tea master for a refill, or was that for expressing thanks? How many cups in a traditional set again? The irony was a thin wisp in sea of cigarette smoke, but I laugh to myself nonetheless. They would surely berate me for making such a joke of their rusted ceremony and their false goddesses.

I leave the bubble and no longer smell flowers.

I swallow emptiness.

How could I drink tea as if it were coffee, sloshing over a crumpled paper rim? How could I disgrace an age-old tradition?

The teacup left a frayed ring of smudged ink on the acquisition contract. The pressed, creamy papers wrinkle with the tea's boil.

Useless girl.

Idiot child.