Tea

"These muscles,' he says, 'this flesh, and these veins are yours, poor fools that you are! Can you not see that the substance of your ancestors' limbs is still in them? Taste them carefully, and you will find the flavour is that of your own flesh.'

Michel de Montaigne, ‘Of Cannibals’ (1580)

Hey, would you like a cup of tea?

At that age sex was silent and everywhere, like a strong smell. It was vulgar, the way it clung to our clothes, the way we never spoke of it but saw it in everything. It squirmed in all of our mouths.

We were taught in alphabetical order; Abstinence, Bodies and Consent by the terms end. It was polite and pretend, our teapot. When that video played the whole class erupted in laughter, oh, we roared! The next day, mass. Our shoulders rubbed against each other in the pews.

Take this, all of you, and eat of it. For this is my body, which will be given up for you.

Not everybody took communion but we all knew what it tasted like. Like a sinkhole in your mouth. On the bus back the boys talked about porn. I fiddled with my buttons. You couldn’t see sex, but it stained our school shirts.

 ***

I just let him, I said. Annie laughed, then quickly pressed her teaspoon to her lips. She shook her head at once. I shrugged. We were curled up on the sofa, so close our knees touched. I began to feel I wanted to talk about something else.

The day before I’d sent him away, tail in between his legs. We’d had friends over for dinner, seven or eight maybe. By eleven, people were yawning, putting on shoes. He was red in the face, complaining about the ferry. Why do you live in Manly then, if you can’t stand it? Maria asked him, and he looked over at me. The ceilings were high but with men like that the walls drooped around them, as though everything lent to their presence. I had anticipated all of it. The night passed quickly. Each no a single sound, like a cough. But I let him. The smell of him everywhere. He met my eyes but I wasn't there. Only his own face, crumpled and worn, looking back.

In the morning, he did the dishes. We are lucky, us girls. When the water stopped I gazed at myself in the showerhead. My skin was blotchy and ugly. Later, the percolator whistled, the coffee bitter. I drank too quickly, leaving the cup by the sink. The taste of it still in my mouth. 

***

My little brother started drinking tea real milky. A big spoon of sugar and then another. He just wanted to know what all the fuss was about. Maith an Cailín, put the kettle on. Will you sit down! they’d say to each other down in the kitchen. Let me make you a cuppa. 

This is it? He said, after his first sip, frowning towards the cup. Tastes grey. 

Yes my boy, this is it. This is what it has always been!

He set the cup aside and leant across for a biscuit. And all the aunties exhaled a little. He’s not quite grown yet, one said. 

***

And who is offering me tea? That analogy is all wrong, sir. D stands for Desire, and in every Exchange he Feasts upon me. In that bed I dilute myself. Drink me, I say! Take me with milk!

***

There he was, just passing the metro. Someone called out to him, I can’t remember who. He just ran over.

A few weeks later; Annie recounted her evening with him, speaking from the fridge. I felt the low hum, the life of the kitchen, under my skin. Hearing his name produced nothing in me but a boredom that shrank everything around it. It ate my stomach.

He just latched onto us then. Sort of hapless, isn’t he? She poured a glass of water, and the story continued. 

Well anyway, he knew the bartender, and so we got a free round. The last one. I made a joke about the two of you, something about him not understanding no. I don't remember, it was nothing, really. But he looked like I slapped him, and he got all quiet. 

I could picture her, arms crossed, hard eyes with a light, far away voice. He, in that navy jacket, smirking at nothing, head heavy and hanging low. She sat at the table then, face to mine.

He kept asking, what did she tell you? Just that, over and over again. I was like, I don’t know man, what do you tell yourself? And then I felt bad, with him crying in the kebab shop and everything. The owners peering out, wondering what the trouble was. And then I thought, why the fuck do I feel bad?

I didn’t answer, but I knew an embarrassed man was one to steer clear of. She knew too, with the laughs cushioning her words. Circled stains on the dining table, from all the mugs. Round, and round, I traced my finger. My face grew hot with her guilt. And hers was mine, and yours, and anything but his. Stains like tree rings. Perhaps I’ve left the tea bag in for too long. Go on, check for me? Have I gone bad?

***

On holiday, back in August. Southern Italy. Scrawling heat all over. Annie sitting roadside, around the corner from the hostel. Melted granita down her wrist. Limone! Sour, eh? It had been hours since I’d seen her, the soles of her feet were dirty, the night was over. The sort of men that found us kissed with heavy mouths, like they wanted us whole and they wanted us now. They were sexy and strange. We thought it was just their nature. One bit her shoulder, right there in the nightclub. I saw it. She took off running, and he stayed there, surrounded by people, stupid and frozen, his hands still as if resting on her waist. And that night I just kept on dancing.

***

The kettle, boiling again, and again. She says to me, down in the kitchen; taste me, swirling around your tongue. Take a chunk from my flesh, taste only yourself.