This woman’s hair has been tickling the side of the teacup for as long as it can remember. At it’s very first tea party, the woman, then a girl in a fairy princess dress, chose it especially for her own private use. Ah, to be the favorite cup, said the others. To be used! Touched! But she had only one favorite, and the rest sat, idle, in front of her many teddy bears and china dolls.
It tasted its first whiskey on the same night she tasted hers, twelve years later. The density, the roughness. The teacup couldn’t believe that such a beautiful fairy princess should ever taste what it was tasting. Still, her friends, who were not fairy princesses, but rather horrible influences, had insisted, and Daddy’s Jack Daniels was gone before the night was over. Daddy was sure he had finished it off, and rushed out to buy more of his favorite liquor.
The fairy princess remained susceptible to her friends’ ideas, despite the pleas of the teacup. Hooked on her pointer finger, the teacup made a wonderful ashtray for her marijuana joints. The teacup coughed, but it could not be heard over the volume on the record player and the din of her many friends’ voices. It was the teacup’s first trip away from home, and it found the dank apartment very unpleasant, unsuitable for such a princess.
Soon, the fairy princess had her own fairy princess to take care of. There she was, twirling in her princess dress, while her mother sipped black coffee out of the teacup. Though the coffee was not as strong as the Jack Daniels, the teacup resented being used for anything other than tea. But it was patient with the fairy princess, because being a mother is tiring. It understood that coffee was, sometimes, necessary.
The darkness has lifted, and the teacup is rattling once again. The old woman’s puckered pointer finger is looped through the handle of the well-worn teacup. She strains to bring the rim to her lips. The teacup strains to kiss her lips once more.
With a crack and a splash, the teacup is lying in a puddle. The old woman has dropped it. No. The handle has broken clean off. The rattling is too much for a frail old teacup.
“Oh! What a bother, what a shame! To lose such a dear friend. Why, you’ve seen as much as I have, dear teacup! My first drink, my first drug, my first child…you’ve gotten me though it all.” She holds the teacup with two hands as tears stream down her face. Rivulets form, drip, and the teacup catches them.
“I can’t just throw you away, teacup. You’re much too special for that. I’ll think of something.” With that, she pulls her walker towards her. A soiled nightgown is not fit for a princess.
Day. Night. Day. Night. The teacup remains on the table, idle. No friendly teddy bears to keep it company. Not a splash of tea to drown its sorrows in. Not a glance from the old woman.
The old woman has been unwell. The teacup can tell. She’s in and out of the house. When she’s in, she barely putters around as she used to. When she’s out… well… who knows what goes on when she’s out. Being stuck on the table, the teacup only waits for her return.
Many ticks later, a man with a stethoscope arrives. The young princess, now too old for her princess dress, brings him in to the kitchen, but the teacup can barely make out the whispers.
“… Eyes…heart… cancer (Cancer?!?)…… no, no…her eyes…it’s Glaucoma.” The man with the stethoscope seems hopeful. He must have a solution.
They turn and walk from the room. As an afterthought, the young princess spins around and grabs the teacup. The three ascend the stairs.
The old woman is awake. She laughs a little, and takes the teacup from her daughter. She knows what to use it for.
“Well, old friend, it seems as though we’ve come full circle,” she laughs and takes a hit from a marijuana cigarette. “Though I will never drink coffee again. Hate the stuff!”
Full of ash, the teacup coughs. The feeling of marijuana ash is still unpleasant. But, she’s right. Coffee is just not suitable for a princess.
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