Curious Tea Pot

I’m old. Really old.

A product of the ‘50s, I’ve held up pretty well considering.

I’m squat, I’m sturdy, and I’m painted like a strawberry. Bright red, yellow seeds, green top. “Cute” has been thrown my way more times than I can remember. My whistler is missing and I'm burned on the bottom. I'm old.

But she loves me.

She loves me because I’m vintage and she found me at a flea market. There were other tea kettles, but none quite like me.

I’m special.

But then again, she’s special.

Jane. “Janie” as her dad calls her. She is petite and sad with an easy smile and I love her. Every night I make her a cup of tea and I listen.

I listen to her mutterings, I listen to her phone calls, I listen to her make believe fights with her boss.

And all the things she wished she’d said to Liam.

I’m the only one who listens.

I make her a cup of tea and I listen.

Tonight is different though.

Tonight she doesn’t want tea. Tonight, she wants vodka. Tonight she wants Liam.

Tonight I just watch my sweet Jane fall apart.

These nights are rare, but they're fierce.

She goes to the freezer and pulls out the Popov. She'll splurge on expensive chocolate that she'll turn into a whole meal, or rare tea leaves that create an experience - but vodka, vodka has just one job.

She doesn't bother turning on the kitchen light as she sits at the table. The sun is just about set, casting long shadows on the walls. She holds her favorite blue mug with stains on the inside and the frozen bottle. She pours. And pours.

She takes a deep drink with eyes open and starts talking.

I listen.

"I loved you. Why would you leave me?" she whispers, wiping snot on her sleeve. Taking another gulp, wincing at the burn.

Jane is small. She's delicate and beautiful in a non-assuming way. You must look at her, really look to see how enchanting she is.

Freckles. Bright hazel eyes. Pretty hands.

Even though she's small, she loves big and tonight her heart shatters on the floor.

"You left. You left me here alone." She suddenly bursts into loud sobs and her face lines with tears.

I desperately wish I could fix it. Fix her.

Another gulp. She pours more. Another gulp.

"What did I do wrong?!?" She wails at the ceiling, fists clenched to her chest. Face bright red, twisted in agony.

She suddenly screams at the top of her lungs and pounds her fist on the table. Over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over.

Beads of sweat start to appear on her hairline and upper lip. Vodka does that to her. She slides off her chair to lay on the cool floor and press her face into the century old hardwood.

"Please come back. Please. Please, please, please. I was yours" she quietly cried, eyes closed. "You were mine." she drunkenly sniffed. Her petite hand starting to swell.

The kitchen is almost black now as a sliver of moonlight shines in the little window above the sink.

Liam wouldn't be back. Leukemia is like that.

"My baby," she whispered as a tear dripped to the floor. “My precious boy." as she drifted off, the vodka lulling her to sleep.

Tonight I will watch over her.

Tomorrow I will make her a cup of tea.