The man in my teacup

Last year, I spoke to the man in the teacup. It was the first time I’d noticed him, and I haven’t been able to talk to him since. Nights are darker once the leaves start to fall, and the air that hangs in place is cold and crisp. It makes sense that a warm teacup feels incredible squeezed between your palms. Plumes of steam hypnotise tired eyes as they spiral upwards; they are our alms to the atmosphere. Their moisture might find its way back into another teacup one day.

Was it the dancing columns that opened my eyes, or did the man in the teacup choose that moment to show himself? My eyes refocused, blurring the steam and pulling the man into focus. He sat floating in the burnt orange bath I’d unknowingly prepared for him. His bulging belly was hidden beneath the surface, his body was loose, and his head was bowed. There was something mythical about his posture; he was a man from another world. Secrets were his currency, and tranquillity was his method. He wasn’t a man who jumped to conclusions or assumptions. For a moment, I thought he might be too relaxed; perhaps life no longer filled his body. But it did. His boxy shoulders grew and shrank on the tides of his breath.

“You think I am not real,” he said, still facing his reflection.

“You speak?” I asked. What do you say to a man bathing in your teacup?

“I speak. When I want to,” he replied.

“What are you doing in my teacup?” I asked. That was a better question; I shouldn’t have wasted the first one.

“I come here occasionally. Ginger and orange is my favourite,” he said, head still bowed forwards.

“This is my first time having it,” I replied.

“And what do you think?” He asked. His voice was slow and gentle, hitting my ears with the comfort of a childhood friend.

“I prefer coffee. But my wife tells me I should not drink it at night.”

“She sounds wise. Besides, I can’t bathe in coffee.”

“Why? It is just warm water passed through ground beans. It’s not that different from tea.”

“But there is nothing to stop me from drowning,” he said as calmly as the steam that drifts around him.

“Honey, who are you talking to?” My wife called from the other room. The interruption made me jump, and a little tea sloshed over the lip of the cup.

“To the man in the teacup,” I answered, then heard her coming to check on my sanity.

“What are you talking about?” I looked up and saw her grinning like a raven who just spotted a shiny object left unattended.

“Look,” I said and returned my eyes to the teacup. But the man wasn’t there anymore. In his place, a tea bag hung, supported by its string. What I saw as a bowing head was a stapled fold, and the stomach that I thought was bobbing below the surface was the saturated leaves.

A chuckle burst above my head like a balloon popping, “Finish it before it gets cold,” she said.

I took a sip and realised I didn’t particularly like ginger and orange, but I couldn’t help but stare at the tea bag hanging above the diminishing steam. I looked at the corners, which I’d mistaken as shoulders. Perhaps I had imagined the voice and the casual questions, but I was sure I had seen shoulders rise and fall.