You could read tea leaves. You'd swallow down the hot drink, swear away the burning heat with scathing words just to reach the dredges of deep black gathered at the bottom of the cup. Mug. That's the word I’d use. I’d hold mine close, watch the white steam spiral upwards gently - I wouldn't take a sip for a while, but you never noticed. You’d just look down at them, focused, caring so much at what your drink had to say about us. It wasn’t good news, I could tell by your furrowed brow, the light in your eyes, gone. You just made an excuse, thanked me for the tea, and made like a tree. The next time you came round you didn't even ask, but I made one on autopilot anyway - put an extra spoonful of them in, mindful of what you like, even though it cost me but you brought the cold in, and before long I was shivering, no tea to keep me warm - I used it all for you. You said a few words, then left me behind, quickly - and the tea too, stayed unfinished. I just tipped it down the sink, watched the wet leaves slide down the drain, cold, and told our fortune from them pretty easily. * She asks us what we’d like to drink, both of us bubbling with the nerves, me close to a near boil - ‘Hot chocolate, please.’ ‘And for me.’ I smile, will the memories away like fading steam - as you smile warmly right back at me. ‘I've never liked tea, really - far too bitter.’
Chloe Smith is a physically disabled and autistic writer and poet from the UK. She is a Foyle Young Poet of the Year 2015, and her poetry has since been published in The Honest Ulsterman, TERSE. Journal, Rose Quartz Magazine, Ghost City Review, The Cabinet of Heed and more. Her flash fiction has been published in Ellipsis Zine, The Ginger Collect, and Three Drops From a Cauldron, and her short stories have found a home in TOKEN Magazine and anthologies by Harmony Ink Press. For more about her writing please visit: https://chloesmithwrites.wordpress.com/. She's also on Twitter, @ch1oewrites.