I sit slouched in the bathtub, writing this by hand. The water has turned from hot to warm. (Photo courtesy of Rembrandt) Although, it is steeped with leftover tea leaves drawn from an antique porcelain teapot with brown and gold flowers and leaves etched into every side. It looks demure, proud even as it sits gracefully next to a squat, colorful Hello-Kitty bowl into which the green…jasmine…lemony something-of a tea has been poured. It’s nearly empty, and as I take my last sip, I see the dregs at the bottom replicated in the bath water as I make a small adjustment with my right leg. On the top of the toilet seat lies an incense holder where a nearly spent Naggchampa Dragon Blood stick stands. There is also a lighter, a bear-shaped honey bottle, and a flask of tea tree oil, and other odd assortments usually found in a lavatory. My nose is running from the warm and allergy inducing things that are in the air. My face feels fresh from washing off the mask made of the aforementioned tea leaves, honey, and tea tree oil. It’s stick almost; sticky but nice. As the last taste of bitter, yet savory, tea lingers in my mouth, I dive back into a book of stories from the first half of the 20th century from the South Pacific Islands. I’m ready to drift off, but still in a dreamlike state…And I haven’t even drank anything alcoholic. Perhaps this is what happens when you continue on toward 12:34 in the morning when your usual hour of retirement is at 10 o’clock. Perhaps I should do this again, this sort of thing. And yes, I will. Will.
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