Laurel Flores Fantauzzo
Years before you, I had no morning ritual, other than waking with dread. When I began my first job, an editorial assistantship, my coworkers thought it strange I drank nothing but water. So I drank the bulk black tea of the office pantry. The roughest leaves in the flimsiest sacks. I understeeped or oversteeped. I reused teabags and drank the brown water. I did not know how to take pleasure in a brief drink. I only knew to take what was available.
Later, the jasmine green tea, a gift from a former lover’s mother who’d later refuse to speak to me. I made her daughter cry with my intention to leave. Then ginger tea with the former soccer captain who wasn’t quite single, a sweet-sharp bite that hurt my stomach, though I knew it was supposed to be soothing. Then exper
