The August sun was high and searing, and as he dropped himself onto the fold-up porch-chair, Ray could feel the heat burning through his greying hair and onto his scalp.

He pulled long on the crackling joint between his lips and his glass reddened in slow sinking swirls as Busia Ana’s silver strainer seeped the soul of the leaves into the boiled water. Chest rising smooth and then dropping sharply as he raised his cracked face to the sun and pushed a cone of ash-white smoke from his mouth into the world above him, creating his own momentary cloud cover. He felt that familiar edge-blurring reassurance reach his fingertips and his now-reddening eyes before allowing himself a satisfied sigh.

Laying the strainer onto the edge of the plate, Ray gave the tea a stir with a well-travelled matching silver spoon before taking a taste. There was plenty still to do, but it had been a long morning and when a Monday started like this, it was the sign of a good week to come.

This piece inspired by an Elephant Words image originally posted at http://elephantwords.co.uk/2014/06/08/strain/.

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George London

Often musician, sometime projectbloke, occasional table, sporadic writer, serial traveler, irregular designer, internet addict with OCLD.

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