A Cold Cup of Tea with a Friend

A Cold Cup of Tea with a Friend

The travesty of great relationships between men and women, I speak of friendship and nothing more, is that someone will cross the line.
…In the morning, I sat at the breakfast table wearing the same clothes as the night before. Wardrobe barely wrinkled from sleeping on top of her down comforter, not underneath with her. My choice, not hers. A loud, humid whistle filled the kitchen, distracting my thoughts from the fidgety sleepless night. My water was ready, and as it seems, this steamy hiss would serve as her alarm clock. I had 4 minutes, to await her entrance, and to steep the perfect cup of tea. It's just the right amount of time to turn scorching purity into a nice cup of darkened reality, and it was her average travel time from bedroom to kitchen on these mornings. Douse and soak. Douse and soak. Douse and soak. Perfect. As I removed the teabag, she entered the kitchen with sleepy eyes wearing that robe I swore she stole from the set of "Fight Club". I began to stand, to fetch my usual sweetener, but she stepped her fuzzy warm foot behind my chair leg and whispered in my ear, "I'll get it". I was uncomfortable because even though last night was different, I was still trying to keep it the same. She continued her stride to the cabinet that housed the little plastic bear filled with the bee's golden reward. She found it where it always was, next to the powdered sugar I used when cooking her Swedish pancakes. As she made her way back to the table with the bottle, it was already inverted. It hovered slowly over my cup with the top already flipped. Déjà vu of every night I've stayed over. When the abnormally slow motion stream of honey began to fall, her index finger darted into harm's way to catch the initial drop. At first I wondered why, but it was clear when she pulled away and placed it on her tongue. A taste? An innocent taste, so I thought. She maneuvered her finger back to the steady pour, but I was still focused on her tongue. "Say when?" rolled off her lips. Without turning away from her, I tried to respond, but was abruptly shushed with a sticky pointer. Awestruck, I sat paralyzed as she continued to spread it evenly across my bottom lip. She made a second pass and stopped. Mute. I couldn't speak or move, as she began to walk away. With her head slightly turned, I could barely see her lick her finger clean, not to rush the chore. And when she reached the entrance to the kitchen, now the exit, she turned and used the same finger to invite me to follow…
And my tea got cold…