I sit attentively, steeping my drinker’s tea. The red decaf Twinings tea bag hangs over the side of the cup, announcing to the world that my drink is emphatically NOT coffee.
It was many years ago that I did not exist. My ceramic elements were at full entropy, lacking order and structure. Secretly, I want to be broken down, to become free again - to move to that lower level of order.
Being ordered is a burden, despite my identity derived from it. My handle sticks out too far. My porcelain paint is too shiny and cold. The cycle of hot / cold / stir / bang is mundane. People drop me and it hurts.
The only thing worth this existence is the warm embrace of my drinker. Despite his peculiar affinity for creamer, he is a thoughtful friend, a gentle soul who just wants a hot mug of tea.
He sips his tea as his father did before him - elbow askew at attention, sticking out and a danger to those passing by. He makes a particular lip movement to suck in the hot tea without burning his mouth. He continues until that time when the tea has cooled sufficiently for full-on gulping.
Like sex, the emptying of the tea starts tentatively and builds to a series of gulps and swirls of the cup. Heat is released, or rather transferred from my being, my vassal of rigid structure.
