showtime

On the news, that evening’s top story was of the dead man found in Freeman Park. Not on the paved path where I had left him, but farther into the wooded area. Stabbed in the neck and bled to death under the evergreens. Derek Brownlow was 42 years old. It was showtime now. But oddly, I had a sudden craving for a cup of tea—sweet, milky, and warm. I put on a pot of water and watched it steam and bubble, trying to remember my last cup of tea. The exact temperature, the amount of sugar, how long it had steeped, the strength of the flavor. When I’d had that last sip, I had no idea I wouldn’t get another, I’d break my glass, I’d never experience the exact sensation of that cup of tea again. It had been, in retrospect, a particularly delicious cup of tea.

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