“Blue or red?”
“You know I always want the blue one. The blue one is mine.”
“But it’s cracked.”
“It’s always been cracked. You know that.”
“Not always.”
“Always.”
“Once, though, it must have been new—and then it wouldn’t have been cracked.”
“Always. Always mine, always cracked.”
Ignoring her, she went on in a wondering sort of way. “And once, maybe, you could see the picture, you know… the blurred blue lines not just blurred blue lines, but—something—I don’t know what. And maybe, without the crack, without the chipped-up edge… without the brown tea-stain inside…”
“Remember the milk. I want milk.”
“…And you know, it might have had a real elegant handle—right where you always put your thumbs—those little stubs—yes, a real elegant handle, and the ladies would hold it and lift up their pinkies, like so—”
“Why elegant? I like it now. It’s always been this way. With a handle you couldn’t hold it right—might drop it, without both hands. Couldn’t feel the tea—couldn’t get warmed up.”
“But it might have been so pretty, might have been—almost—”
“Just cold hands. What’s the point, then?”
“Almost—porcelain, yes, that’s it. From China, maybe? Yes, maybe from China.”
“China? No. It’s just from here… from home.”
She finally looked up from the cup in her hands. “You’re always thinking of the boring things. Just look now, can’t you imagine it at some fine tea party with ladies in kimonos—”
“Chinese don’t wear kimonos.”
“—kimonos, and—green tea? Yes, silk and green tea and incense and kimonos…”
“No, just cinnamon apple—much better than some outlandish green tea. Cinnamon apple with a bit of milk, and a bit of sugar… you probably wouldn’t even like green tea.”
She set down the cup and sighed. “You’re hopeless.”
But the other only smiled a satisfied smile. The smell of cinnamon apple steamed up from the cracked blue cup as the tea-bag bobbed and then sunk, steeping. She poured in the milk (it hadn’t been remembered) from the glass jar—just a bit of milk—and stirred in a baby-spoonful of white sugar. Then, wrapping both hands round it, with her thumbs where the handle used to be, just so—she sat down in the worn-out rocker, drawing the cup to her, feeling its warmth, feeling the comfort: her chipped blue cup—here, at home.