An Affair

The cup was dirty. Old. Cracked, torn, shattered, dead. As if a cup could die. A lipstick smudge taunting the rim, garish against the grey ceramic. Red against the dead corpse of a cup. The handle was missing, probably on the floor. By the door, which had slammed. The cracks in the cup ran up from the missing handle, dirt ingrained in these cracks, making them striking, dark, dirty. The cup was abandoned on the table, alone in the sea of emptiness. The other dishes and cups and utensils, cleaned, put away, hidden. But this cup was dirty. This cup had lipstick bleeding from its remains. Inside the cups was dried tea. Not normal tea, not earl grey, not lady grey, not mint tea, but jasmine. Jasmine tea. Pungent, staining. Had needed straining. The odd leaf plastered to the side, splayed across the wall of the cup. The cracked, grey, dead wall. The cup was dirty.