In my warm mug of hot lemon and honey, the specks of cinnamon and cayenne pepper float about, they collide with the chunk of ginger and bounce off to the sides. I watch them try to make sense of the swirling forces, giving themselves up to the motion and the heat. 

I think about the woman I brushed past at the hospital, the hug I couldn’t give her despite her need and my mind spins to the other woman who budged up so I could sit down, who changed seats to make room for me at the funeral directors and she held on tightly to her mug, the tea they’d made for her, the heat pushing through the ceramic, trying to reach her fingertips, trying to tell her she’ll be ok.

I hold my mug now, I can feel the pressure where its smoothness meets mine. I watch myself watching it, feeling it. 

We lock eyes, the woman on the end of their sofa, and both take a deep breath together. I pass her a weak smile and say ‘out breath’ out loud and we nod, we understand. I’ll never see her again.

I wonder if she’s thinking of me this morning. Or if the woman in the hospital remembers rushing past me, remembers the paleness of my face and how my eyes caught hers for a split second.

I wonder what these women are doing now and if they’re sitting quiet in the still sparkle of the lounge, if they’re holding their mug close to them, watching the moments spin.

I’d better shower, better seep into the day, note the sensations as they move through me and feel the connections I can’t see.

The heat disperses into the morning, the kick of ginger wakes me. 

I am here.

This is now.

I drink up and go round again.