Tea with Jesus

A prose piece for (and about) my eccentric and beloved Charlotte

A crumb tumbles, just shy of the Grande Dame’s satin lapel. An apprehended snippet. Eyebrows raised. Fervent and suspended animation. Boldness in her gesture, corroborated by her ivory coif.

He muses on the valley and the shadow of death. She bites a pierced lip. Strokes a fresh tattoo on her wrist. The breaking of bread marks some vague and spoiled camaraderie. A hypothetical jam pot outsmarted by a commonplace scone.

His soliloquies are of religious abstractions, fantasy panaceas. Nothing more than a vase of cornflowers wilting in the lascivious oven of her androgyny. The heat of her allure to all mortal beasts, noose-like. Double-windsor against her alabaster throat.

His usual style (outstretched arms) connotes a left to right molasses of stigma. A ring a ring o’ roses. By contrast her fierce spirit is labyrinthine. A snaking amalgam of good and bad. An avant-garde foil to his pot of English breakfast. She reaches for its warm handle.

“Shall I be mother?” she asks.


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