Tiny Drip of Tea on the Saucer of the Cup in 'The Dead'

As my finger turned to that familiar drip that was cold and slightly off-putting by that point in the conversation, I wanted to leave the saucer and be done with it once and for all. I looked down at my still warm cup and wanted to say sorry to the warmth of tea. I wanted to say, I'm so desperately sorry for wasting your time, my tea. I wanted to shake hands with the delicate porcelain and say, you know, it will be ok.

You replied to me:
- No it will not be fine.
- You can always buy a present to make it up.
- No it will not be put right, I am broken and so is he.

Up and up we soared there in that sitting room/parlour and everyone knew that it would not be fine and that the splash of tea was simply a reminder that the snow was coming. That ice that would cut my lips. Yes, actually cut through the lippy strips that extended inwards in that red glow that you used to pull towards you. I would flop into your arms and lay there. Hearts all glowing and red and wantyou. I can feel your breath there now, where it has left a liver spot now. Where you bit me that time. Where the cut was, a tiny glimpse of grit got in there and you can feel it when you rub your finger across it. I play with it when I'm nervous. Like a bruise. If you push hard enough, it taps on the teeth, slightly blue.