I've been wanting to write angst, and the weather agreed with my wishes. There's nothing like the half-shadow of grey twilight to put one in a somber state of mind. And the teacup on my windowsill half full of forgotten jewelry made for good inspiration.
A cup of Earl Grey cools upon the windowsill. Steam wafts only slowly from the chestnut liquid, dying like breath in winter as it rises above its station only to be stolen away like time in a bottle. The white china cup it resides within stands tall and immovable, a hint of pride and near-forgotten chivalry gleam within its glaze. There's no etching along its rim, no subtle flair upon the ivory handle to distinguish this cup from the multitudes of white china cups that exist throughout the world.
Perhaps that's the very reason why he chose such a vessel for his chosen brew. There is nothing remarkable about this mug, nothing out of the ordinary - mayhaps making it extraordinary in his eyes. Nothing is ever what it seems. Not even a simple china cup. He had learned that lesson well enough.
There were 642 reasons he could have extrapolated upon as to the chosen color choice of his drink container, only 487 of which revolved around a certain manic magician in the moonlight. The rest of the reasons were rather fanciful, and not worth thinking upon. They existed, but were not important in the overall scheme of things. At least, that was his excuse. It's a fitting vessel no matter which reason and thus it was granted the privilege of being his tea holder.
The choice in Earl Grey is an easy enough matter to justify. It's a simple tea, black, with a hint of oil of bergamot to enhance the taste and entice the senses. There's a boldness to the brew that most green teas lack, and the color drew him back to the hardwood floors of his youth. Furthermore, it smelt like Home, and that's all the real reason he needed to give.
The tea had seeped in a clay fired teapot downstairs before being poured into this particular white china cup. The rest of the tea unfortunate enough to have been left behind still waits like a wistful lover on a warming rack by the hearth. It may be drunk before the night is over; it may not. Either way it stands ready should it be called upon.
To this particular cup of tea that rests on a lonely windowsill, said cup tempered with warm water before being granted the privilege of bearing the amber ambrosia of choice, was added a dash of milk. More than a pinch but less than a splash. Enough to cloud the liquid and reduce its clarity of color from mahogany to pine. And perhaps soften the sharpness to a more palatable consistency. At least, that's the reason he would have provided.
Once properly prepared, this cup of fine vintage Earl Grey was carried up a flight of stairs, past the two bedrooms on the left and deposited upon a desk in the study, carefully out of the way of the case files cluttering the wide expanse of cherry wood and leather trim. Said files, spanning a time frame of days, months, years, 47 countries and five continents, no two alike but for the gleeful grin topping every page, were spread chaotic upon the expanse, organized in a hand no sane man would recognize. Unless said sane man were to have jumbled them intentionally, whether in frustration or despair is anyone's guess. The drying watermarks littering the sheets nearest the leather wing-back chair would suggest the latter.
The tea cup, oblivious to its surroundings, sent forth merry puffs of steam into the literary oasis. It had no reason to do otherwise. Soon enough the pale boy for whom this tea had been prepared lifted the ordinary cup from its ordinary saucer. But instead of partaking in this carefully crafted delight, he merely cradled the china in cold hands, staring into the liquid as if it could unfold all the answers in the universe. What the boy saw, the cup could not say. It's not in the place of beverages to reflect upon their reflections. Even if said reflections wobbled in the wake of shaking hands and the lone introduction of one salty tear to their contents. They are built to contain, and that is what this cup does.
This cup of Earl Grey sat in the hands of the man-child, for no boy should hold such hollowed eyes, warming cold fingers that leeched its heat away like so much dust in the wind. There were no words spoken, no sips enjoyed, just one individual gazing into his tea. The second hand on the grandfather clock residing on the mantle spun round and round the numbered face, circles and circles of time that ceased to exist, ceased to turn the other way and reorder reality to before the chaos. To before his whole world came shattering down.
He finally placed the cup on the windowsill, a red smear of something marring its pristine visage. The cup thought nothing of this predicament for cups have no thoughts, and sat waiting solemnly, coldly, emotionless. Much as the lad wished he could be. But cups of tea know not the wishes of men, especially men who have had to grow up too fast, who have seen too much, witnessed too much, watched their love die right before their eyes in a sickening scarlet array without a chance to do anything but cradle the broken body. Cradle the body of a ghost gone before his time, before he had a chance to catch him, to kiss him, to convince him of his sincerity. Before he had a chance at happiness. No, cups of tea know not the wishes of men, nor of heartbreak. Nor of the path grief leaves in its wake. And the opportunities it provides.
The common china teacup sits forgotten on the windowsill, Earl Grey ever so slowly growing cold. It noticed not its intended owner departing, not the note left sprawled among the papers, the tears that streamed down the male's face, the whispered promise "I'll see you soon." The gunshot going off in the bathroom next door. It sits, and it waits, steadily growing colder as paramedics pull the zipper up on a body on the other side of the wall. A body that is steadily growing colder like the cup of Earl Grey perched upon the windowsill.
...Yeah. Make of this what you will.