::small fissures::

The teacup I chose for my bastard mint tea of the evening was cracked. We've had teacups only since we've been married. I stuck my hand back into the low cupboard and my hand disappeared. I felt around and came back with a teacup that felt furry, the thin layer of dust gathering into the whorls of my fingerpads. And when I looked closely at it, because I am still amazed we live in a teacup household, I saw the crack. He called it a seam in production, but then looked ever more closely and saw it for what it was. A crack. The irregular seam. Not deep enough to let the small ocean of tea through, but a crack just the same.

When I poured hot water into its mouth, the lines darkened until the whole fissure down the side looked a shade darker. Then other cracks began to reveal themselves, little splits, darkening.

The teacup will eventually split open into two. I can bury its halves in the garden that's developing outside, down below our window. The blue of the cup's body will be a mirror of the sky after a Santa Ana has somersaulted and cartwheeled through, splitting the seams of the atmosphere.