Mugs With Tea Quotes

You should date a girl who reads. Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve. Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn. She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book. Buy her another cup of coffee. Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice. It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does. She has to give it a shot somehow. Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world. Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two. Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series. If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are. You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype. You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots. Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads. Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

It is the kind of day designed for wood fires, and mugs of tea, and well-loved books.

Nim handed me a mug of tea. I took a sip and it was just how I like it, strong and sweet. If you added psychotic and emotionally unavailable to that, it would also cover my taste in women.

She sits in her usual ample armchair, with piles of books and unopened magazines around her. She sips cautiously from the mug of weak herb tea which is now her substitute for coffee. At one time she thought that she could not live without coffee, but it turned out that it is really the warm large mug she wants in her hands, that is the aid to thought or whatever it is she practices through the procession of hours, or of days.

There was a teapot, in which Mma Ramotswe -- the only lady private detective in Botwana -- brewed tea. And three mugs -- one for herself, one for her secretary, and one for the client. What else does a detective agency really need?

The room was not a room to elevate the soul. Louis XIV, to pick a name at random, would not have liked it, would have found it not sunny enough, and insufficiently full of mirrors. He would have desired someone to pick up the socks, put the records away, and maybe burn the place down. Michelangelo would have been distressed by its proportions, which were neither lofty nor shaped by any noticeable inner harmony or symmetry, other than that all parts of the room were pretty much equally full of old coffee mugs, shoes and brimming ashtrays, most of which were sharing their tasks with each other. The walls were painted in almost precisely that shade of green which Rafaello Sanzio would have bitten off his own right hand at the wrist rather than use, and Hercules, on seeing the room, would probably have returned half an hour later armed with a navigable river.

I love storms—I just don’t like to be in them. I’d prefer to cuddle up under the blankets with a mug of tea and a book while listening to the rain fall.

A lie is when you say something happened which didn't happen. But there is only ever one thing which happened at a particular time and a particular place. And there are an infinite number of things which didn't happen at that time and that place. And if I think about something which didn't happen I start thinking about all the other things which didn't happen. For example, this morning for breakfast I had Ready Brek and some hot raspberry milkshake. But if I say that I actually had Shreddies and a mug of tea I start thinking about Coco-Pops and lemonade and Porridge and Dr Pepper and how I wasn't eating my breakfast in Egypt and there wasn't a rhinoceros in the room and Father wasn't wearing a diving suit and so on and even writing this makes me feel shaky and scared, like I do when I'm standing on the top of a very tall building and there are thousands of houses and cars and people below me and my head is so full of all these things that I'm afraid that I'm going to forget to stand up straight and hang onto the rail and I'm going to fall over and be killed. This is another reason why I don't like proper novels, because they are lies about things which didn't happen and they make me feel shaky and scared. And this is why everything I have written here is true.

How You Doing, Little Lucy?” His bright tone and mild expression indicates we’re playing a game we almost never play. It’s a game called How You Doing? and it basically starts off like we don’t hate each other. We act like normal colleagues who don’t want to swirl their hands in each other’s blood. It’s disturbing. “Great, thanks, Big Josh. How You Doing?” “Super. Gonna go get coffee. Can I get you some tea?” He has his heavy black mug in his hand. I hate his mug. I look down; my hand is already holding my red polka-dot mug. He’d spit in anything he made me. Does he think I’m crazy? “I think I’ll join you.” We march purposefully toward the kitchen with identical footfalls, left, right, left, right, like prosecutors walking toward the camera in the opening credits of Law & Order. It requires me to almost double my stride. Colleagues break off conversations and look at us with speculative expressions. Joshua and I look at each other and bare our teeth. Time to act civil. Like executives. “Ah-ha-ha,” we say to each other genially at some pretend joke. “Ah-ha-ha.” We sweep around a corner. Annabelle turns from the photocopier and almost drops her papers. “What’s happening?” Joshua and I nod at her and continue striding, unified in our endless game of one-upmanship. My short striped dress flaps from the g-force. “Mommy and Daddy love you very much, kids,” Joshua says quietly so only I can hear him. To the casual onlooker he is politely chatting. A few meerkat heads have popped up over cubicle walls. It seems we’re the stuff of legend. “Sometimes we get excited and argue. But don’t be scared. Even when we’re arguing, it’s not your fault.” “It’s just grown-up stuff,” I softly explain to the apprehensive faces we pass. “Sometimes Daddy sleeps on the couch, but it’s okay. We still love you.

I hope you don’t mind tea in mugs,’ she said, coming in with a tray. ‘I told you I was a slut.

A rack of mugs rested alongside. There were two hand-drawn labels affixed to the decanters. “Happy Tea!” read one, above a drawing of a wide-eyed, grinning Human with frizzy hair standing on end. “Boring Tea,” read the other. The Human drawn there looked content, but indifferent.

Women can go mad with insomnia. The sleep-deprived roam houses that have lost their familiarity. With tea mugs in hand, we wander rooms, looking on shelves for something we will recognize: a book title, a photograph, the teak-carved bird -- a souvenir from what place? A memory almost rises when our eyes rest on a painting's grey sweep of cloud, or the curve of a wooden leg in a corner. Fingertips faintly recall the raised pattern on a chair cushion, but we wonder how these things have come to be here, in this stranger's home. Lost women drift in places where time has collapsed. We look into our thoughts and hearts for what has been forgotten, for what has gone missing. What did we once care about? Whom did we love? We are emptied. We are remote. Like night lilies, we open in the dark, breathe in the shadowy world. Our soliloquies are heard by no one.

She sat at the dining table, a steaming mug of tea in front of her, a distant look in her eyes. Holden couldn’t tell if she was melancholy or solving a complex engineering problem in her head. Those looks were confusingly similar.

Geralt finished his mug of herb tea, grimacing dreadfully. He valued and liked the settled elves for their intelligence, calm reserve and sense of humour, but he couldn’t understand or share their taste in food or drink.

Father, everybody has mugs these days. It's not a sign of debauchery and disrepute to drink tea from a mug.

Cup of tea?' Lupin said, looking around for his kettle. 'I was just thinking of making one.' 'All right,' said Harry, awkwardly. Lupin tapped the kettle with his wand and a blast of steam issued suddenly from the spout. 'Sit down,' said Lupin, taking the lid off a dusty tin. 'I've only got teabags, I'm afraid-but I daresay you've had enough of tea leaves?' Harry looked at him. Lupin's eyes were twinkling. 'How did you know that?' Harry asked. 'Professor McGonagall told me,' said Lupin, passing Harry a chipped mug of tea. 'You're not worried, are you?

Jesus Christ,” said my father. “Can you imagine? If it wasn’t punishment enough ending up in a ruddy wheelchair, then you get our Lou turning up to keep you company.” “Bernard!” my mother scolded. Behind me, Granddad was laughing into his mug of tea.

Gallowglass extended his hand farther and hoped that the tea’s aroma would persuade her to indulge. “It’s Scottish Breakfast tea. One of your favorites.” “Get thee behind me, Satan,” Diana grumbled, taking the mug.

The sky outside is a static gray, a thin mist of rain blurring the buildings. It is the kind of day designed for wood fires, and mugs of tea, and well-loved books.

As Remus sat at the Potter’s big wooden kitchen table eating cake and sipping a huge mug of tea, listening to James and Sirius chatter nineteen to the dozen about the term so far, he couldn’t resist sighing contentedly to himself. Two whole weeks of this.

A year later we were in a coffee shop, the kind taking a last stand against Starbucks with its thrift-store chairs, vegan cookies, and over-promising teas with names like Serenity and Inner Peace. I was curled up with a stack of causes, trying to get in a few extra hours of work over the weekend, and Andrew sat with one hand gripping his mug, his nose in The New York Times; the two of us a parody of the yuppie couple of the new millennium. We sat silently that way, though there wasn't silence at all. On top of the typical coffee-shop sounds - the whir of an expresso machine, the click of the cash register, the bell above the door - Andrew was making his noises, an occasional snort at something he read in the paper, the jangle of his keys in his pocket, a sniffle since he was getting over a cold, a clearing of his throat. And as we sat there, all I could do was listen to those Andrew-specific noises, the rhythm of his breath, the in-out in-out, its low whistle. Snort. Jangle. Sniffle. Clear. Hypnotized. I wanted to buy his soundtrack. This must be what love is, I thought. Not wanting his noises to ever stop.

I can't start the day without a cup of tea from my favourite mug, can you? I like Yorkshire Tea the best. What about you?

He made a more explicit defence of his tea-mug (again irreplaceable, in war-time conditions) by attaching it with a combination lock to a Hut 8 radiator pipe. But it was picked, to tease him.

Here. Tea.” Reagan hands me a steaming mug. One sip tells me it’s not just tea. “You spiked the drink of an injured person,” I state flatly, the alcohol burning in my throat. “Who does that?” “It’s better than what a lame horse gets,

i didn't come here to be civil. i didn't come here to sit you down with a mug of tea & a blueberry muffin to coddle you as i try to convince you that respecting my existence is essential, you've had plenty of chances & you took a hard pass every time, so i came here to watch your anger overtake until you finally combust.

Listen, boy, just ask the chef to make me a proper Full English Breakfast. You know, bacon, fried eggs, sausages, liver, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes, black pudding, kidneys, baked beans, fried bread, toast and served with strong English mustard, mind - none of this effete French muck - and a large mug of hot, strong Indian tea.

Rhysand summoned a mug of hot tea from nowhere and handed it to me. “Drink it.

I was pleased to see that even back in the glory days of the Folly people left their mugs of tea on their magical textbooks.

Oh God above, if heaven has a taste it must be an egg with butter and salt. And after the egg, is there anything in the world lovelier than fresh, warm bread and a mug of sweet, golden tea?

Mma Ramotswe had a detective agency in Africa, at the foot of Kgale Hill. These were its assets: a tiny white van, two desks, two chairs, a telephone, and an old typewriter. Then there was a teapot, in which Mma Ramotswe – the only lady private detective in Botswana – brewed redbush tea. And three mugs – one for herself, one for her secretary, and one for the client. What else does a detective agency really need? Detective agencies rely on human intuition and intelligence, both of which Mma Ramotswe had in abundance. No inventory would ever include those, of course.

Oh what marvels fill me with thanksgiving! The deep mahogany of a leaf once green. The feathered fronds of tiny icicles coating every twig and branch in a wintry landscape. The feel of goosebumps thawing after endured frozen temperatures. Both hands clamped around a hot mug of herbal tea. The aromatic whiff of mint under my nose. The stir of emotion from a child's cry for mommy. A gift of love detached of strings. Spotted lilies collecting raindrops in a cupped clump of petals. The vibrant mélange of colors on butterfly wings. The milky luster of a single pearl. Rainbows reflecting off iridescence bubbles. Awe-struck silence evoked by any form of beauty. Avocado flecks in your eyes. Warm hands on my face. Sweetness on the tongue. The harmony of voices. An answered prayer. A pink balloon. A caress. A smile. More. These have become my treasures by virtue of thanksgiving.

We are mugs filled to the brim, and we keep getting bumped. If we are filled with coffee, coffee will spill out. If we are filled with tea, tea will spill out. Getting bumped is inevitable. If we want to change what spills out of us, we have to work to change what’s inside of us.

Except if you’re of European descent. Your lactase continues to work throughout your life. This unusual phenomenon is called lactase persistence, and although a splash of milk in tea is the English way, and even a mug of hot chocolate might seem very normal to us, we are the weird ones.

I’m mesmerized by lipstick prints on coffee cups. By the lines of lips against white pottery. By the color chosen by the woman who sat and sipped and lived life. By the mark she leaves behind. Some people read tea leaves and others can tell your future through the lines on your palm. I think I’d like to read lipstick marks on coffee mugs. To learn how to differentiate yearning from satiation. To know the curve of a deep-rooted joy or the line of bottomless grief. To be able to say, this deep blue red you chose and how firmly you planted your lips, this speaks of love on the horizon. But, darling, you must be sure to stand in your own truth. That barely-there nude that circles the entire rim? You are exploding into lightness and possibilities beyond what you currently know. The way the gloss only shows when the light hits it and the coffee has sloshed all over the saucer? people need to take the time to see you whole but my god, you’re glorious and messy and wonderful and free. The deep purple bruise almost etched in a single spot and most of the cup left unconsumed? Oh love. Let me hold the depth of your ache. It is true. He’s not coming back. I know you already know this, but do you also know this is not the end? Love. This is not the end. I imagine that I can know entire stories by these marks on discarded mugs. Imagine that I know something intimate and true of the woman who left them. That I could take those mugs home one day and an entire novel worth of characters would pour out, just like that.

The real wages of potters are in the daily silent appreciations of each of their customers as they pour the morning tea from their teapot, or drink coffee from their mug, or eat dinner off their plate. To be this involved in the daily lives of people who appreciate and admire your work enough to buy it must bring deep reassurance. It is a kind of immortality you can enjoy while still living. The same goes for the woodworker. You are part of the community.

You didn't hear me right. I didn't say 'a mug of poisoned tea'. I said 'a poisoned mug of tea'. It was the handle I poisoned... Laken Cross, you are an evil man for coming here to kill me and you're an evil man for forcing me to do what I had to do. I hope you burn in whatever hell you believe in. - Finbar

They smiled at each other. Jane looked away. She picked up her mug of tea and took a sip even though it was all gone. The doorbell rang. “That will be Celeste,” said Madeline. Great, thought Jane, continuing to pretend-sip her empty mug of tea. Now I’ll be in the presence of both great love and great beauty.

He meditated resentfully on the physical texture of life. Had it always been like this? Had food always tasted like this? He looked round the canteen. A low-ceilinged, crowded room, its walls grimy from the contact of innumerable bodies; battered metal tables and chairs, placed so close together that you sat with elbows touching; bent spoons, dented trays, coarse white mugs; all surfaces greasy, grime in every crack; and a sourish, composite smell of bad gin and bad coffee and metallic stew and dirty clothes. Always in your stomach and in your skin there was a sort of protest, a feeling that you had been cheated of something that you had a right to. It was true that he had no memories of anything greatly different. In any time that he could accurately remember, there had never been quite enough to eat, one had never had socks or underclothes that were not full of holes, furniture had always been battered and rickety, rooms underheated, tube trains crowded, houses falling to pieces, bread dark-coloured, tea a rarity, coffee filthy-tasting, cigarettes insufficient -- nothing cheap and plentiful except synthetic gin. And though, of course, it grew worse as one's body aged, was it not a sign that this was not the natural order of things, if one's heart sickened at the discomfort and dirt and scarcity, the interminable winters, the stickiness of one's socks, the lifts that never worked, the cold water, the gritty soap, the cigarettes that came to pieces, the food with its strange evil tastes? Why should one feel it to be intolerable unless one had some kind of ancestral memory that things had once been different?

Knowing no better, they are content to drop a bag of poorest quality blended tea into a mug, scald it with boiling water, and then dilute any remaining flavour by adding fridge-cold milk. Once again, for some reason, it is I who am considered strange. But if you’re going to drink a cup of tea, why not take every care to maximize the pleasure?

Once threw a mug of tea at a policeman

I put two mugs of water in the microwave. I grab the tea bags.

Gil to Addison: "So, I hope your tea cup won't mind my coffee mug next to it in the morning.

Mug of tea, sarge?’ said Snouty. ‘Stewed for an hour and two sugars.

Human, eh? Well, I guess to each their own.” His eyes flashed orange. And then he left and I seriously considered throwing my mug of tea at the back of his head.

I’m more cock-y,” he emphasizes, “with all the ladies. This is me toning it down.” He adds a drizzle of honey into the steaming tea and sets a mug in front of me. “You’re welcome, by the way.

If you wait for perfection, then you’re never going to do it.” After adding the tea to the mugs, she handed one to Zara. “That’s not a dig, it’s an acknowledgment of the fact that perfection is unachievable.

Think of all the requirements writers imagine for themselves: A cabin in the woods A plain wooden table Absolute silence A favorite pen A favorite ink A favorite blank book A favorite typewriter A favorite laptop A favorite writing program A large advance A yellow pad A wastebasket A shotgun The early light of morning The moon at night A rainy afternoon A thunderstorm with high winds The first snow of winter A cup of coffee in just the right cup A beer A mug of green tea A bourbon Solitude Sooner or later the need for any one of these will prevent you from writing. Anything you think you need in order to write— Or be “inspired” to write or “get in the mood” to write— Becomes a prohibition when it’s lacking. Learn to write anywhere, at any time, in any conditions, With anything, starting from nowhere. All you really need is your head, the one indispensable

Now my evenings have the consolation of mugs of emerald-green tea made with fresh mint. It’s not so bad, but the time seems to stretch, and I’m finding myself in bed by nine, perhaps earlier if I can get away with it. It’s a profoundly unsociable way of living, but it gives me those clearheaded early mornings in the inky dark, when I light candles around the house and relish two straight hours when nobody can make any demands on me.

James: Mugs can be used for all sorts of things. Tea, soup, ice cream. But after my mug stage, I kept with my utilitarian impulse and pursued plate making. Lucy: How big were your plates? James: They were plate-size.

the physical world gone down in flames mountains, rivers and lakes and pulling with it all those human rhythms that bind us together and draw the world into a community, those daily rites, rhythms and rituals upholding the world like solar bones, that rarefied amalgam of time and light whose extension through every minute of the day is visible from the moment I get up in the morning and stand at the kitchen window with a mug of tea in my hand,

She was shocked at the strength of the flavor. “Gods, Tun. I think this is better than tea.” “That,” he said, taking a sip of his own, the mug lost in his hand, “only proves that your opinion may be safely ignored. Now, the maps?

He pulls just an inch away, releasing with a sweet suction my bottom lip. “Your mouth is hot and tastes like honey.” I show him the tea that I’ve been holding out of the way. “I see,” he twinkles at me and takes the travel mug, helping himself to a long sip. He leans back in, and I guess what he’s doing just in time. His feeding me the hot sip of honeyed tea should be weird, but as usual, he’s so committed to the moment that I just enjoy the sweetness, the intimacy.

Maybe real-life Mom didn't vacuum the house flawlessly arrayed in pearls and a pleated shirt like the mother on leave it to beaver. Maybe she flirted with the milkman or waited for the kids to go to bed so she could hammer back a couple of mugs of vodka pretending it was tea. But she was there to greet us when we came home from school in the afternoon. She made us dinner, kept watch on us through the kitchen window, put Band-Aids on our scrapes and bruises. She was Mom and that was no small thing.

That I have remembered what it is, and how it can be done. But watching television from the sofa later that evening I notice tears running from my eyes and dropping into my mug of tea. Odd, I think. I put it down to tiredness. Perhaps I am getting a cold. Perhaps

These I have loved: Pork with apple sauce; tea in a heavy mug; The smell of new books, and musty ones; A girl with red coils for curls --Her scream--Her smile; The slap of a blonde dog's tongue Against my face; and an old face--Nana's; A broken fence--a secret pathway between two houses; The sinking into a familiar bed; Sheets white and crispy clean; The return of a woman in a green coat-- Imperfect and human; The sound of poetry; And of pencil lead scuffing the page as I write; Made-up stores; and Truth. These I have loved.

Then I saw Vas, clutching a mug of tea with bleeding knuckles. When he noticed the blood, he dabbed at it with a handkerchief and stuffed it back into his pocket. “I know you can’t feel pain, Vas, but there is some value in taking care of your own body,” I said to him.

Sophie opened one sleepy eye. A chink of light had found its way through a gap in the bedroom curtains and was falling on her face. She felt her husband slide his cold body down under the duvet and raised her head. She spotted a steaming mug of tea on her beside cabinet.

The policemen had clearly been there all morning: four big white tea mugs from the canteen were drained and drip-stained, red-and-gold wrappers from caramel log biscuits were folded into interesting shapes on one side of the table, rolled up into tight little balls on the other.

Is coffee okay? I’ve run out of tea.” Arthur nodded and sat down on the sofa. Lucy leaped up and settled on his lap. He stroked her head and she looked up at him with her orange eyes. “Where’s next on your travels?” Mike said as he placed two steaming mugs on the table. “What’s the next charm you’re trying to trace?” “I don’t know. I’m intrigued by the paint palette. And I haven’t thought about my mother-in-law for years. Or perhaps I should just stop searching. It makes my head hurt.” “You should never give up,” Mike said. “Those charms on your bracelet could be lucky.

Viv glanced sidelong at Laney’s mug of tea. “Say, you ever have coffee?” she asked. Laney blinked at her and looked affronted. “Why, I never have. And the way I was brought up, a lady doesn’t talk about her maladies,” she said primly. Viv barked a laugh, to the old woman’s great annoyance.

I watched relationships begin and end across those tables, children transferred between divorcees, the guilty relief of those parents who couldn’t face cooking, and the secret pleasure of pensioners at a fried breakfast. All human life came through, and most of them shared a few words with me, trading jokes or comments over the mugs of steaming tea

It’s the thrill of being able to do what she likes, of not having to figure out what a husband wants to do, what his expectations are, how they behave together, who sits where on the sofa, how he takes his tea and which mugs he likes, whether she should check before having her friends over, whose toothbrush is whose (a nightmare, every new husband).

What would you like, black or green?" "Green, please. It has an earthier taste." "What is you name?" "Leila. It means 'evening,' but I would rather have a morning name. I was at the other party, but I like your party better." "I see. Cup or mug?" "Cup, please. The best china. Gold-rimmed, no flowers. No cracks or chips. It's okay. I don't break things.

She kept herself busy for a moment, pouring hot water into a mug and giving Jay a chance to absorb what she’d just asked of him, letting him consider her request. Before the dance and before they were a couple, there would have been nothing to think about; he would never have told on her. They’d kept each other’s secrets. No matter what. But now everything—everything—had changed, and Violet was sometimes surprised by how far he would go to keep her out of harm’s way. She knew that, for him anyway, it meant that he would even betray her secrets if it meant she’d be safer in the end. She carried her steaming mug, with the tea bag steeping inside, and set it on the table as she sat down. Jay reluctantly sat too. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, watching her warily. Finally he sighed, “I won’t tell . . . if you make me one promise.” She met his eyes, hesitating at the look she saw on his face. The unusual mixture of tenderness and fear were at odds, but it made Violet feel warm and soft inside. He reached out his hand to her, and she took it, letting him pull her toward him. She settled onto his lap as he wrapped his arms around her. He nuzzled her neck, inhaling deeply as if the scent of her was somehow reassuring. “Next time . . .” he insisted in a voice quieter than before, “you call me.” She nodded, satisfied that he would keep her safe . . . secrets and all. It was completely astonishing to her—even after all these months—being in love with her best friend.

I imagined her poised, a humerus in one hand, a toothbrush in the other, as she gently brushed away the last remnants of the person who had once used that arm to shake hands, open doors, lift a mug of tea. I wondered if it was so very different from how I myself looked when I sat on the floor of my finds room, perhaps sitting cross-legged, at the centre of a circle of newly cleaned bones, a tibia in one hand, a toothbrush in the other …

I was too irritable from the drive to go straight into the D. H. Lawrence Birthplace Museum and Gift Shop so I ordered a calming cup of tea in the White Peacock Cafe. 'Mug or cup?' 'Cup please,' I said, thinking that I could have said 'I said "cup".' I said cup because I have never enjoyed tea from a mug - and for that matter, only rarely from a cup. Basically I don't like tea but what else is there? Life is really no more than a search for a hot drink one likes.

The tea in my mug was blue-black, and floating across the surface were tiny lily pads, each cradling a perfect white flower. Shadows flitted across the surface of the water, as if above it was a canopy of dark trees admitting only the thinnest of sunbeams. Wendell swore. He reached for the cup, but I was already cradling it. "Are they blooming?" I said. Indeed, as I watched, another flower opened, petals waving in a wind that did not belong to the calm Cambridge weather.

I Remember You Best as the Man asleep on my chest, warm breath somehow the exact opposite of sex. How I came to know you take your tea with honey if I got any. Sugar? Then nothing. It's true we teach each other how we want to be held. You brimming hot - another mug I had to shuffle-step up a narrow stair. Once right after waking and always again, but decaf before turning in. Because loving you was another impossibility, who was I to notice when it happened? When it did it bloomed in me, milk in the sleeping dark.

A lie is when you say something happened which didn’t happen. But there is only ever one thing which happened at a particular time and a particular place. And there are an infinite number of things which didn’t happen at that time and that place. And if I think about something which didn’t happen I start thinking about all the other things which didn’t happen. For example, this morning for breakfast I had Ready Brek and some hot raspberry milk shake. But if I say that I actually had Shreddies and a mug of tea*3 I start thinking about Coco Pops and lemonade and porridge and Dr Pepper and how I wasn’t eating my breakfast in Egypt and there wasn’t a rhinoceros in the room and Father wasn’t wearing a diving suit and so on and even writing this makes me feel shaky and scared, like I do when I’m standing on the top of a very tall building and there are thousands of houses and cars and people below me and my head is so full of all these things that I’m afraid that I’m going to forget to stand up straight and hang on to the rail and I’m going to fall over and be killed.

Peter’s mom told me he was talking about transferring to UNC next year. She wanted me to break up with him before he messed up his life for me.” “Damn! Peter’s mom is kind of a bitch!” “She didn’t use those exact words, but that was the gist of it.” I take a sip of tea. “I wouldn’t want him to transfer for me either…My mom used to say not to go to college with a boyfriend, because you’ll lose out on a true freshman experience.” “Well, to be fair, your mom never met Peter Kavinsky. She didn’t have all the facts. If she had met him…” Trina lets out a low whistle. “She might’ve been singing a different tune.” Tears fill my eyes. “Honestly I regret breaking up with him and I wish I could take it all back!” She tips up my chin. “Then why don’t you?” “I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me for hurting him like that. He doesn’t let people in easily. I think I’m probably dead to him.” Trina tries to hide a smile. “I doubt that. Look, you’ll talk to him at the wedding tomorrow. When he sees you in that dress, all will be forgiven.” I sniffle. “I’m sure he’s not coming.” “I’m sure he is. You don’t plan a man’s bachelor party and then not show to the wedding. Not to mention the fact that he’s crazy about you.” “But what if I hurt him again?” She wraps both her hands around her mug of tea and takes a sip. “You can’t protect him from being hurt, babe, no matter what you do. Being vulnerable, letting people in, getting hurt…it’s all a part of being in love.” I take this in. “Trina, when did you figure out that you and my dad were the real thing?” “I don’t know…I think I just--decided.” “Decided on what?” “Decided on him. On us.” She smiles at me. “On all of it.

It's weird not being in our subculture of two any more. There was Jen's culture, her little habits and ways of doing things; the collection of stuff she'd already learnt she loved before we met me. Chorizo and Jonathan Franken and long walks and the Eagles (her dad). Seeing the Christmas lights. Taylor Swift, frying pans in the dishwasher, the works absolutely, arsewipe, heaven. Tracy Chapman and prawn jalfrezi and Muriel Spark and HP sauce in bacon sandwiches. And then there was my culture. Steve Martin and Aston Villa and New York and E.T. Chicken bhuna, strange-looking cats and always having squash or cans of soft drinks in the house. The Cure. Pink Floyd. Kanye West, friend eggs, ten hours' sleep, ketchup in bacon sandwiches. Never missing dental check-ups. Sister Sledge (my mum). Watching TV even if the weather is nice. Cadbury's Caramel. John and Paul and George and Ringo. And then we met and fell in love and we introduced each other to all of it, like children showing each other their favourite toys. The instinct never goes - look at my fire engine, look at my vinyl collection. Look at all these things I've chosen to represent who I am. It was fun to find out about each other's self-made cultures and make our own hybrid in the years of eating, watching, reading, listening, sleeping and living together. Our culture was tea drink from very large mugs. And looking forward to the Glastonbury ticket day and the new season of Game of Thrones and taking the piss out of ourselves for being just like everyone else. Our culture was over-tipping in restaurants because we both used to work in the service industry, salty popcorn at the cinema and afternoon naps. Side-by-side morning sex. Home-made Manhattans. Barmade Manhattans (much better). Otis Redding's "Cigarettes and Coffee" (our song). Discovering a new song we both loved and listening to it over and over again until we couldn't listen to it any more. Period dramas on a Sunday night. That one perfect vibrator that finished her off in seconds when we were in a rush. Gravy. David Hockney. Truffle crisps. Can you believe it? I still can't believe it. A smell indisputably reminiscent of bums. On a crisp. And yet we couldn't get enough of them together - stuffing them in our gobs, her hand on my chest, me trying not to get crumbs in her hair as we watched Sense and Sensibility (1995). But I'm not a member of that club anymore. No one is. It's been disbanded, dissolved, the domain is no longer valid. So what do I do with all its stuff? Where so I put it all? Where do I take all my new discoveries now I'm no longer a tribe of two? And if I start a new sub-genre of love with someone else, am I allowed to bring in all the things I loved from the last one? Or would that be weird? Why do I find this so hard?

So he strode, and ran, and hurried home. He emptied into the ever-useful pocket-handkerchief the little meal remaining in the mug. Mary would have her tea at Miss Simmonds’; her food for the day was safe. Then he went upstairs for his better coat, and his one, gay red-and-yellow silk pocket-handkerchief — his jewels, his plate, his valuables, these were. He went to the pawn-shop; he pawned them for five shillings; he stopped not, nor stayed, till he was once more in London Road, within five minutes’ walk of Berry Street — then he loitered in his gait, in order to discover the shops he wanted. He bought meat, and a loaf of bread, candles, chips, and from a little retail yard he purchased a couple of hundredweights of coal. Some money still remained — all destined for them, but he did not yet know how best to spend it. Food, light, and warmth, he had instantly seen were necessary; for luxuries he would wait. Wilson’s eyes filled with tears when he saw Barton enter with his purchases. He understood it all, and longed to be once more in work that he might help in some of these material ways, without feeling that he was using his son’s money.

How ‘bout some coffee?” Jake said as he hurried over to the coffee pot on the stove and filled a mug with the remainder of the steaming brew. When he got to the table with it, however, he stopped and looked helplessly from Lucinda to Elizabeth, obviously not certain who ought properly to be served first. “Coffee,” Lucinda informed him dampeningly when he took a step toward her, “is a heathen brew, unfit for civilized people. I prefer tea.” “I’ll have coffee,” Elizabeth said hastily. Jake flashed her a grateful smile, put the mug before her, then returned to the stove. Rather than look at Ian, Elizabeth stared, as if fascinated, at Jake Wiley’s back while she sipped her coffee.

computers, and what I had done for Will. But I thought this should probably be her moment. We sat on the foldaway chairs, under the tattered sunshade, and sipped at our mugs of tea. Her fingers, I noticed, were all the right colors. “She misses you,” I said. “We’ll be back most weekends from now on. I just needed…Lou, it wasn’t just about settling Thomas in. I just needed a bit of time to be away from it all. I just wanted time to be a different person.” She looked a bit like a different person. It was weird. Just a few weeks away from home could rub the familiarity right off someone. I felt like she was on the path to being someone I wasn’t quite sure of. I felt, weirdly, as if I were being left behind. “Mum told me your disabled bloke came to

What d’you reckon happened to the Cattermoles?” “With any luck, they’ll have got away,” said Hermione, clutching her hot mug for comfort. “As long as Mr. Cattermole had his wits about him, he’ll have transported Mrs. Cattermole by Side-Along-Apparition and they’ll be fleeing the country right now with their children. That’s what Harry told her to do.” “Blimey, I hope they escaped,” said Ron, leaning back on his pillows. The tea seemed to be doing him good; a little of his color had returned. “I didn’t get the feeling Reg Cattermole was all that quick-witted, though, the way everyone was talking to me when I was him. God, I hope they made it…If they both end up in Azkaban because of us…” Harry looked over at Hermione and the question he had been about to ask--about whether Mrs. Cattermole’s lack of a wand would prevent her Apparating alongside her husband--died in his throat. Hermione was watching Ron fret over the fate of the Cattermoles, and there was such tenderness in her expression that Harry felt almost as if he had surprised her in the act of kissing him. “So, have you got it?” Harry asked her, partly to remind her that he was there. “Got--got what?” she said with a little start. “What did we just go through all that for? The locket! Where’s the locket?” “You got it?” shouted Ron, raising himself a little higher on his pillows. “No one tells me anything! Blimey, you could have mentioned it!” “Well, we were running for our lives from the Death Eaters, weren’t we?” said Hermione.

I glance around the study, uncertain where she’s storing stationery supplies this week. Could be here, could be the trunk of her car, could be in her bra or at the bottom of her Louis Vuitton briefcase. I reach for the top drawer of the desk. Hesitate. Mom is a mess monster. Her bedroom looks like a battle broke out between a hurricane and a thrift store. There are cold cups of tea in there, playing host to entire micro-nations. My Spider-Man mug went in two months and ten days ago . . . I haven’t seen it since. A shudder rips through me. When my mug finally does emerge, it will need to be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom. But that’s her space. Our compromise. She fights her natural urge to leave things lying around the rest of the house and we keep her bedroom door closed at all times.

Catherine let that sink in. Then said, “Somebody might get hurt.” “I’m pleased you’ve grasped the essentials.” He took a magnificent slurp of tea. “Besides, Taverner’s heart’s not in it. She’s up to something, and it’s not going well.” “And this is a cause for rejoicing? We’re all on the same side, remember?” “Jesus, have you learned nothing? When they tell you to take it one day at a time, that doesn’t mean do a memory wipe each morning.” He set the mug down. It couldn’t possibly be empty yet. “If we were all on the same side, we wouldn’t have to watch our own backs.” “We can’t watch our own backs. We have to watch each other’s.” “That, sir, is arrant pedantry,” Lamb said, in a fair approximation of Winston Churchill. “Up with which you can fuck right off.” He was impossible in this mood, which was something it had in common with all his other moods.

Lindon sat at a table, mug of hot tea in his hands. “Is it just me, or does this book feel shorter than the others?” “That’s the goal, isn’t it?” Eithan pointed out. He was leaning back in his chair, with his black armor hanging on a stand behind him. “Don’t you want a story to feel shorter than it is? To leave you wanting more?” “Couldn’t say I care if it is,” Yerin said. She rolled her empty mug across the table. “Tea’s not bad. Where’d you get it?” “Space.” Eithan turned back to Lindon. “I’m not usually one for measuring things precisely, but I get the feeling that this book will actually end up longer than the last one. Thanks to a little strategic addition.” “Really?” Lindon frowned and took another sip of tea. “You think this story is longer than the last one?” “If my calculations are correct, this book should have more words than the last by exactly…” Eithan counted to himself. “…one.

In the kitchen, she made passionflower tea, turning the jar of loose leaves in her hand while a teaspoon's worth steeped in her mug. The tea was local, made from an herb that rarely grew in New England but did on Quinnipeague. A natural sedative, passionflower was another of Cecily Cole's gems. The tea was still steeping when she decided she was hungry. On impulse, she took a jar of strawberry jam from the cupboard. It, too, was local, put up the fall before by one of the island women. Unscrewing the lid, she pried a layer of wax from the top and, taking a spoon, sampled it straight from the jar. She closed her eyes, isolating the sense of taste for the greatest enjoyment. Strawberries... and vanilla? Eyes popping open, she peered into the glass until she spotted the bean among the berries. A single bean. No surprise there. Vanilla beans came from a variety of orchid that had no business growing up on Quinnipeague, but did. Not only was the flower a more vivid yellow than elsewhere, but the bean was potent.

I sipped my hot, sweet, milky tea, feeling myself settle, center. I couldn't possibly stay in a state of high emotion, and there was a lot to get through in the next few days or weeks. Right this minute, I could enjoy this table in a bakery in a small English village. The place was clearing out, and the chelsea bun beckoned. It was a coil of pastry laced with currants and a hint of lemon zest, quite sweet. I gave it the attention it deserved, since a person couldn't be pigging out on pastries and eggs and bacon all the time. Not me, anyway. Unlike my slender mother, I was built of rounder stuff, and I hadn't been able to walk as much as was my habit. In the meantime, the tea was excellent, served in a sturdy silver pot with a mug that didn't seem to match any other mug on the tables. The room smelled of yeast and coffee and cinnamon and the perfume of a woman who had walked by. Light classical music played quietly. From the kitchen came voices engaged in the production of all the goods in the case. A rich sense of well-being spread through me, and I realized that my leg didn't hurt at all.

Then I saw Vas, clutching a mug of tea with bleeding knuckles. When he noticed the blood, he dabbed at it with a handkerchief and stuffed it back into his pocket. “I know you can’t feel pain, Vas, but there is some value in taking care of your own body,” I said to him. He raised his eyebrows at me, then set his mug down. The others were gathered on the opposite end of the room, holding glasses, standing in small groups. Most had collected around Ryzek like debris around a drain hole. Yma Zetsyvis--white hair almost glowing against the dark backdrop of space--was among them, her body stiff with obvious tension. Otherwise the room was empty, the black floors polished, the walls just curved windows. I half expected us all to float away. “You know so little about my gift, for all the time we’ve known each other,” Vas said. “Do you know I have to set alarms to eat and drink? And check myself constantly for broken bones and bruises?” I had never thought about what else Vas had lost when he lost the ability to feel pain. “That’s why I let the little wounds slide,” Vas said. “It’s exhausting, paying this much attention to your own body.” “Hmm,” I said. “I think I might know something about that.

Recipes TOM PEPPER’S HOT BREW To soothe the throat or otherwise ease a long day. 1.4 drachm (1 tsp) local raw honey 16 drachm (1 oz) scotch or bourbon ½ pint (1 cup) hot water 3 sprigs fresh thyme Stir honey and bourbon at bottom of mug. Add hot water and thyme sprigs. Steep five minutes. Sip while warm. BLACKFRIARS BALM FOR BUGS AND BOILS To subdue angry, itchy skin caused by insect bites. 1 drachm (0.75 tsp) castor oil 1 drachm (0.75 tsp) almond oil 10 drops tea tree oil 5 drops lavender oil In a 2.7 drachm (10 ml) glass rollerball vial, add the 4 oils. Fill to top with water and secure cap. Shake well before each use. Apply to itchy, uncomfortable skin. ROSEMARY BUTTER BISCUIT COOKIES A traditional shortbread. Savory yet sweet, and in no way sinister. 1 sprig fresh rosemary 1 ½ cup butter, salted 2⁄3cup white sugar 2 ¾ cup all-purpose flour Remove leaves from rosemary and finely chop (approximately 1 Tbsp or to taste). Soften butter; blend well with sugar. Add rosemary and flour; mix well until dough comes together. Line 2 cookie sheets with parchment paper. Form dough into 1.25-inch balls; press gently into pans until 0.5-inch thick. Refrigerate at least 1 hour. Preheat oven to 375°F. Bake for 10–12 minutes, just until bottom edges are golden. Do not overbake. Cool at least 10 minutes. Makes 45 cookies.

The walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling. Stacks of books stood neatly arranged on every horizontal surface—tables, windowsills, even the top of an unplugged television. Since Sophie had been forbidden to explore the library at home, her only real experience with books had come at school and from the few children's books that lay on the bottom shelf of a cabinet in the nursery. She sensed immediately that this was something altogether different. It was a library, yes, but she knew these books had been read. They weren't arranged in long lines of matching bindings like the ones in Bayfield House, and almost every volume had slips of paper protruding from the top. she wondered if Uncle Bertram had marked all the best bits. "Shall we have a story?" said her uncle, when he had hung up their coats. "Yes, please," said Sophie. "What would you like?" he asked. "You pick." And so he did. They settled onto the couch, Bertram with a cup of tea and Sophie with a mug of cocoa. He began to read and Sophie's world was transformed—this was not like the insubstantial children's stories her mother read to her at bedtime. This was ever so much more. "The Wind in the Willows," read Uncle Bertram. "Chapter One, The River Bank. The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home." Sophie closed her eyes and fell into the story.

Think about it, Tilda,’ he says, throwing his arms in the air. ‘All that stuff, that madness, that heartbreak. It’s all about love. It makes you crazy and you can end up acting like an idiot. Oh yes, love might be “a many splendoured thing”, but it’s also a right royal pain in the arse!’ I’m stunned, and Eli has tipped his head to one side in apparent confusion, but Daniel is warming to his subject now and adds striding about to his arm-waving. ‘Look – Gracie loved you and she loved Stevie. But she loved too hard, and it drove her crazy because she didn’t love herself and so she didn’t think that anyone else could. She gave up everything for love but didn’t feel loved in return. And yes, she was ill and thought God had disowned her, which probably didn’t help, but in the end it was all about love.’ Even in my slightly befuddled state Daniel’s words strike home. Sometimes a simple truth is like a hammer blow. Daniel sits down again and checks his mug for tea. It’s empty. ‘And at this point, I’d also like to take issue with Lennon and McCartney for propagating the ridiculous notion that all we need is love. I can think of at least five more things just off the top of my head, and given more time for proper consideration I’d probably come up with a few more.’ He looks sorrowfully into his empty mug. ‘And one of them is definitely tea.’ I get up and put the kettle on.

What the..." Ranulf barked behind her. "Where's the meat? The butter?" Bronwyn smiled. It was going to be a hard few days for everyone at Hunswick,suddenly observing Advent, but it might inspire the new residents to not just enjoy the fruits of everyone's labor,but appreciate and contribute. Turning around,Bronwyn pasted on what she hoped to be an incredulous look and said, "During Advent Fast?Now,my lord, you wouldn't want others to think you a heathen." Ranulf picked up the mug,sniffed the tea with disdain,and put it back down before flopping into one of the hearth chairs. "I know a hell of a lot more about the topic than you.And I could care less about the opinion of others." "I doubt that," Bronwyn murmured, just loud enough for him to hear, "on either point." Ranulf leaned forward and grabbed the plate of fish and potatoes. He took several bites and waved his fork around the platter. "The Church calls for their followers to celebrate the season of Advent the four weeks before Christmas, which is nonsense because I know of no one who rejoices in the idea of starvation and...abstinence." Bronwyn's heartbeat suddenly doubled its pace and she had to fight to remain looking relaxed and unaffected. "I believe humility is a large purpose behind the fast." "And control," Ranulf replied with a grunt. "If I kept such an absurd custom, I and my men would have starved many a year.

some older people who need to sit down, Barb. We can’t put chairs out. I don’t want them to get too comfy or we’ll never get rid of them.’ ‘Oh, you’re being ridiculous.’ Henry is thinking that this is a fine time to call him ridiculous. He never wanted the stupid vigil. In bed last night they had another spit-whispered row about it. We could have it at the front of the house, Barbara had said when the vicar called by. Henry had quite explicitly said he would not support anything churchy – anything that would feel like a memorial service. But the vicar had said the idea of a vigil was exactly the opposite. That the community would like to show that they have not given up. That they continue to support the family. To pray for Anna’s safe return. Barbara was delighted and it was all agreed. A small event at the house. People would walk from the village, or park on the industrial estate and walk up the drive. ‘This was your idea, Barbara.’ ‘The vicar’s, actually. People just want to show support. That is what this is about.’ ‘This is ghoulish, Barb. That’s what this is.’ He moves the tractor across the yard again, depositing two more bales of straw alongside the others. ‘There. That should be enough.’ Henry looks across at his wife and is struck by the familiar contradiction. Wondering how on earth they got here. Not just since Anna disappeared, but across the twenty-two years of their marriage. He wonders if all marriages end up like this. Or if he is simply a bad man. For as Barbara sweeps her hair behind her ear and tilts up her chin, Henry can still see the full lips, perfect teeth and high cheekbones that once made him feel so very differently. It’s a pendulum that still confuses him, makes him wish he could rewind. To go back to the Young Farmers’ ball, when she smelled so divine and everything seemed so easy and hopeful. And he is wishing, yes, that he could go back and have another run. Make a better job of it. All of it. Then he closes his eyes. The echo again of Anna’s voice next to him in the car. You disgust me, Dad. He wants the voice to stop. To be quiet. Wants to rewind yet again. To when Anna was little and loved him, collected posies on Primrose Lane. To when he was her hero and she wanted to race him back to the house for tea. Barbara is now looking across the yard to the brazier. ‘You’re going to light a fire, Henry?’ ‘It will be cold. Yes.’ ‘Thank you. I’m doing soup in mugs, too.’ A pause then. ‘You really think this is a mistake, Henry? I didn’t realise it would upset you quite so much. I’m sorry.’ ‘It’s OK, Barbara. Let’s just make the best of it now.’ He slams the tractor into reverse and moves it out of the yard and back into its position inside the barn. There, in the semi-darkness, his heartbeat finally begins to settle and he sits very still on the tractor, needing the quiet, the stillness. It was their reserve position, to have the vigil under cover in this barn, if the weather was bad. But it has been a fine day. Cold but with a clear, bright sky, so they will stay out of doors. Yes. Henry rather hopes the cold will drive everyone home sooner, soup or no soup. And now he thinks he will sit here for a while longer, actually. Yes. It’s nice here alone in the barn. He finds

I missed you," I said. "Missed you, too. Welcome home." We moved in to hug each other, then I sprang back seconds before getting smushed against his still-sopping-wet sweater. "Ben!" "Ooh, poor form on my part," he said, and peeled off his sodden sweater. He wore a thin white T-shirt underneath. The coffee spill had left the shirt a bit damp, and it clung slightly to his chest in a way that made me stare and caught my voice in my throat. That was ridiculous, of course. Ben and I had the kind of friendship where we talked about things like that. I could tease him about his suddenly well-toned body; he'd make some kind of self-effacing joke and parry by bringing up something absurd he'd seen about me in a magazine... But I didn't say a word. And I didn't stop looking. Clearly I was in a sleep-deprived haze. "You could still try the coffee," he offered. "There's plenty in the sweater. I can just wring it right into the mug." I shook off my reverie. "Tempting offer, but no thanks. You really need to give up on the coffee thing. I'm never converting from tea." "We'll see," he said. He set the wet sweater on the hand towel, then turned to me with his arms out. "Better?" "Much," I said, and closed the distance between us so he could fold me into his arms. "Hel-lo! Please tell me I'm interrupting something!" It was Rayna, and at the sound of her voice, Ben and I sheepishly pulled apart. Again, ridiculous. Hugging was nothing unusual for us. Granted, Ben was usually wearing more than a thin T-shirt at the time... "Why is it I'm hearing no one when they come into the house?" "Big house," Rayna said. "Come on-my mom's throwing us a welcome home party at our place." "Tonight?" I asked. "Immediately. Unless I can tell my mom there are...extenuating circumstances." She said the last part with a leer that lingered on Ben's chest and made him blush. Rayna's entire family had spent the last two years dying for Ben and me to get together. They seemed to be under the impression that my parents hired him to be my boyfriend, not my international adviser.

HEART OF TEA DEVOTION Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steamy column and the cups That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful ev ning in. WILLIAM COWPER Perhaps the idea of a tea party takes you back to childhood. Do you remember dressing up and putting on your best manners as you sipped pretend tea out of tiny cups and shared pretend delicacies with your friends, your parents, or your teddy bears? Were you lucky enough to know adults who cared enough to share tea parties with you? And are you lucky enough to have a little person with whom you could share a tea party today? Is there a little girl inside you who longs for a lovely time of childish imagination and "so big" manners? It could be that the mention of teatime brings quieter memories-cups of amber liquid sipped in peaceful solitude on a big porch, or friendly confidences shared over steaming cups. So many of my own special times of closeness-with my husband, my children, my friends-have begun with putting a kettle on to boil and pulling out a tea tray. But even if you don't care for tea-if you prefer coffee or cocoa or lemonade or ice water, or if you like chunky mugs better than gleaming silver or delicate china, or if you find the idea of traditional tea too formal and a bit intimidating-there's still room for you at the tea table, and I think you would love it there! I have shared tea with so many people-from business executives to book club ladies to five-year-old boys. And I have found that few can resist a tea party when it is served with the right spirit. You see, it's not tea itself that speaks to the soul with such a satisfying message-although I must confess that I adore the warmth and fragrance of a cup of Earl Grey or Red Zinger. And it's not the teacups themselves that bring such a message of beauty and serenity and friendship-although my teacups do bring much pleasure. It's not the tea, in other words, that makes teatime special, it's the spirit of the tea party. It's what happens when women or men or children make a place in their life for the

When I threw the stick at Jamie, I hadn't intended to hit him with it. But the moment it left my hand, I knew that's what was going to happen. I didn't yet know any calculus or geometry, but I was able to plot, with some degree of certainty, the trajectory of that stick. The initial velocity, the acceleration, the impact. The mathematical likelihood of Jamie's bloody cheek. It had good weight and heft, that stick. It felt nice to throw. And it looked damn fine in the overcast sky, too, flying end over end, spinning like a heavy, two-pronged pinwheel and (finally, indifferently, like math) connecting with Jamie's face. Jamie's older sister took me by the arm and she shook me. Why did you do that? What were you thinking? The anger I saw in her eyes. Heard in her voice. The kid I became to her then, who was not the kid I thought I was. The burdensome regret. I knew the word "accident" was wrong, but I used it anyway. If you throw a baseball at a wall and it goes through a window, that is an accident. If you throw a stick directly at your friend and it hits your friend in the face, that is something else. My throw had been something of a lob and there had been a good distance between us. There had been ample time for Jamie to move, but he hadn't moved. There had been time for him to lift a hand and protect his face from the stick, but he hadn't done that either. He just stood impotent and watched it hit him. And it made me angry: That he hadn't tried harder at a defense. That he hadn't made any effort to protect himself from me. What was I thinking? What was he thinking? I am not a kid who throws sticks at his friends. But sometimes, that's who I've been. And when I've been that kid, it's like I'm watching myself act in a movie, reciting somebody else's damaging lines. Like this morning, over breakfast. Your eyes asking mine to forget last night's exchange. You were holding your favorite tea mug. I don't remember what we were fighting about. It doesn't seem to matter any more. The words that came out of my mouth then, deliberate and measured, temporarily satisfying to throw at the bored space between us. The slow, beautiful arc. The spin and the calculated impact. The downward turn of your face. The heavy drop in my chest. The word "accident" was wrong. I used it anyway.

You should date a girl who reads. Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve. Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn. She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book. Buy her another cup of coffee. Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice. It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does. She has to give it a shot somehow. Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world. Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two. Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series. If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are. You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype. You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots. Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads. Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

Michelle: It wasn't my house. It was owned by a brownie couple who owned it and rented out suites. There were a few long-term renters, like me, but it also functioned as a bed and breakfast to people and magical creatures passing through. A renter, like myself, was entitled to two meals a day, which made up for the microscopic kitchen. Being something of an indifferent or terrible cook, those kept me from eating fast food every day. I walked inside, barely pausing to wipe my feet on the mat. I swung to the right and stumbled into the dining room, hardly looking at the long table or who might be at it. I made a bee-line for the tea and slurped down half a mug. The hot, caffeinated beverage forced my eyes open and gave my movement some energy. While topping off my mug, I looked around and saw two unicorns, a dwarf and five shifters.

Don't worry," I say, putting a PG Tips tea bag in her mug. "It's been happening for years. It's not getting worse. Besides, I'm not hearing voice, I'm overhearing them. I just don't know what they are saying.

We’ve brought you a present, dear.’ ‘Really?’ ‘It’s just for you.’ It’s a hardcover of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility and on the inside front page there’s this little oval black and white picture of her with a baby’s bonnet on her head and a kind of ironic smile like She Knows. Jane knows what stupid insensitive people there are in the world and that’s what is behind every word she writes. Look at her portrait, She Knows. I think Dear Jane had a bit of the Impossible Standard herself although maybe it wasn’t even that impossible, maybe it was just some kind of decency and awareness she was expecting. ‘It’s Jane Austen, dear,’ Aunt P says. ‘What?’ Nan asks from the fire. ‘JANE AUSTEN,’ Aunt roars. ‘EXHAUSTING?’ Nan bellows back. ‘YES,’ and starts the Aged P nod. Neither of my aunts, I am convinced, ever drank tea from a mug. The china cups are out for them. They are a pair in the world, the two of them, and trade in exchange one to the other an entire currency of startled, dismayed and disapproving looks. The world fails the Impossible Standard constantly. Sometimes I imagine a whole gallery of their failed suitors, scrubbed jowly farmers of Meath, tweeded-up and cow-licked down, sent up to evenings in Ashcroft. The Meath men have surnames like Castlebridge, Farns, Ainsley. The sisters kill them off afterwards with cutting remarks. One sentence will do for each one.

not get home until after ten. Her coat was still sodden from the rain so she hung it over the heated towel rail in her bathroom before having a shower. Anna’s own fridge was virtually empty. She sighed, knowing she should have bought some groceries for herself, never mind Langton. She made some beans on toast and a mug of tea, taking them on a tray to eat in her bedroom. Her initial nagging thoughts about the doll’s house returned. Putting down the tray on the floor beside the bed, she reached for her briefcase and

Noticing the slight curl of Mona’s lip she knew instantly mugs were not her cup of tea. Literally.

I might not be everyone's cup of tea, but I'm somebody's mug of coffee!

Dad used to make me tea at night during the pregnancy whenever I was feeling sick.” “Really?” I removed her hands from my stomach. “He did that?” “Yup. He even bought me a bunch of different flavors so I wouldn’t get bored with any of them. He’d bring me a steaming cup in bed and tell me to close my eyes, see if I could guess the flavor.” It was hard to picture this. Him putting water in a pot, boiling it, steeping a mug with Earl Grey, English Breakfast, chamomile. I couldn’t even picture him in the checkout lane at the grocery store with anything other than Miller Lite and jelly beans. That man bringing tea to his pregnant wife wasn’t the same as the one who once picked me up from school two hours late, with crushed Miller Lite cans and gum wrappers covering the floor of his car, the front of his gray gym shorts soaked in piss, shouting over and over, “Get in, we’re going to Disneyland.” I thought about telling Mom this memory, reminding her of that other man. “Or is it something else?” she asked. “What can I do?” She would never be able to help me. Her loyalties would always lie with him, this dead man who showed her sides he never showed to me.

People often characterize depression as a lack of hope or vitality, but I associate it more with a restlessness, an inability to feel at peace. You’re on the couch watching Netflix in furry pajamas, clutching a mug of hot tea, and you think, maybe the problem is that you aren’t getting out of the flat enough. You throw on jeans and head down to the bar, but after half a drink you want to run home. You repeat this routine a couple of times before you realize the problem isn’t where you are.

Miriam gasped, knocking her mug and sending tea slopping onto the table.

...without thinking the follow-up thought that prevents a person from following through with the original, she throws the tea in the mug at the screen and watches it drip down, while now, finally, allowing the follow-up thought to come through, the thought that would have stopped her from throwing the tea at the screen in the first place. She feels two things: recognizable regret and dim, unfamiliar power.