*Content Warnings: Physical Violence or Abuse*

Hyacinth Teacup

by Victoria Pasion

Some cups aren’t meant to be microwaved. In the case of Mireia’s tea cup with pretty hyacinths painted on, it couldn’t be. It wouldn’t explode her microwave, but it had accumulated several cracks from the times it’d been microwaved by mistake. It didn’t lessen its beauty though. She loved to trace the cracks with her fingers just as much as the bumps of blue and purple paint that made the hyacinths. It had its inconveniences. Such as how she always had to drink fast because, once it cooled, Mireia couldn’t reheat it with ease. Still, the small pleasure of tea was put down in haste when she heard a knock on the door.

It was far too late for some type of door-to-door salesman, and people she knew would have called her house before assuming she’d be awake when she had work tomorrow. Anybody but Yatzil, the name echoed in her head as she opened the door. Just like many nights before, Yatzil was there, looking at her with hooded eyes that held no light. The only difference was tonight her black hair was sleek and heavy with rainwater. Anyone else would’ve thought the stains on her face were also from the rain. After all, her dark brown skin didn’t turn pink with tears often, but Mireia knew by the scrunch in her brow that the post-crying headache was beginning to set in.

“Bastard locked me out again,” was all she said, and it was all she needed. Mireia opened the door wide enough to let the soaking woman in. By now Mireia didn’t expect a murmured request to be let in because they both knew. Mireia knew she had nowhere else, and Yatzil knew Mireia was just as hopeless as her. Hopeless and loving enough to always allow her in no matter how broken she appeared.

Yatzil took her shoes off at the door and felt reality set in as her feet touched the cold tiles. The tears she fought so hard to repress on the bus ride there bubbled up again and blurred her vision. Not even the ground felt stable, but she could feel Miriera’s calloused hands on hers as they went through the hall. In truth, it wasn’t necessary because she’d been there so many times. By now her feet might have carved a path for her river of tears. Blind and dizzy she could find her way through this house. The steady hand served to soothe more than guide, but she took the initiative to lead Yatzil to the bathroom nonetheless. “Take a warm shower. I don’t want you getting sick,” Mireia instructed as the pair entered.

The shower provided idle noise for Mireia as she walked about the house getting towels and spare clothes. By the time she was done and had prepared herself for sleep Yatzil was done and asked, “Would you mind drying my hair?” It took her a while, but Mireia did the best she could with her cheap hair dryer. A long time was spent finger-combing Yatzil’s hair as the hairdryer hummed. It’d be a lie to say her hair was fully dry, but with hair as long and full as Yatzil’s there were scarce moments it ever was. Miriera couldn’t relate to the problem; her brown hair didn’t even reach her shoulders. As Yatzil gazed at herself in the mirror she murmured a thank you.

There was a moment going on, but Miriera couldn’t tell what it was. Yatzil was seeing something in the mirror besides just them. It felt strange to be there as if her broad shoulders were absorbing too much room in the reflection. All she could do was try not to ruin the moment with her fidgeting. Yatzil broke the silence, “Santi thinks I should cut my hair. I’m going to miss this,” she admitted like she was in a confessional.

“Why would he want that? I thought he liked your long hair,” she replied. In an odd way Santiago didn’t have many positive things to say about his wife’s appearance. He made rude comments— she’d be prettier if she was paler— and said that if he was rich he’d get her a nose job. Yatzil often tried to say he didn’t know better. It’s one of the few things she did that irritated Mireia because Santiago was’t an old dog who bit people, he was a grown man who wouldn’t control his mouth or temper.

However her hair was so luxuriant, even he couldn’t deny it suited her. Mireia was brought back from her thoughts by Yatzil’s hollow voice. “Pretty but a hassle is what he called it. Not as short as yours of course, but short enough that we spend less on conditioner and stuff,” she explained with a sigh.

“I think it’d be a shame. You’ve always loved your hair,” was all she could say. She remembered their school days when Yatzil was always braiding her hair and spent too much on sparkly clips. She loved the glimmer in her smile when the French braid would come out just right. It was cute even when there was lipstick in her teeth. She couldn’t imagine taking such joy away.

Being at all like Santiago always left a bitter taste in her mouth. When Yatzil first brought him around she didn’t like him of course. She chalked it up to jealousy. Then time passed and it showed he simply wasn’t the good man Yatzil said he was. By the time it became obvious Yatzil had either been naive or a liar it was too late. There was nothing Mireia could say to make her leave him, but she could choose to never leave her. That way she could at least be there on nights like this.

That night Mireira placed bandaids on Yatzil’s fingers even when she could’ve done it herself. They were peculiar small and jagged cuts and out of a morbid curiosity she asked about their origin. She was told a long story about Santiago hitting a shaky table that held a vase. Yatzil picked up the broken pieces by hand, and Mireira tried not to chastise her about the safety of that.

“I liked that vase, my amá gave it to me as a wedding gift. I might try to piece it back together,” she mused.

“I don’t think that’s worth the effort or cuts. It’ll probably be broken again,” Mireira advised. Saying that was useless because if Yatzil wanted to do something she’d do it no matter what people said. Behavior like that had always made the teachers at their private school mad. Back then Mireira thought it was admirable. Now she could see it was a trait that bordered foolishness. There still must be some part of her that thought it was commendable behavior. If not then she wouldn’t entertain the thought of restocking on band aids.

“What if I left it here with you?” Yatzil looked around the barren living room with a withering couch. “You could use something that gives your home more character. Everything looks frugal right now,” she commented.

“It is frugal, having a house with one income isn’t easy. I’ll probably need to start renting out the spare room soon,” Mireira replied with a laugh.

Later with Yatzil tucked into her bed wearing borrowed clothes she could almost delude herself into thinking the admiration was mutual. The thought maddened her when Yatzil whispered goodnight before kissing the top of her head. Then she’d remember how even actions as innocent as these kisses were always laced with the undercurrent of guilt. Guilt that would wash over and drown them both. It was a dangerous game they played together. One wrong move and the cracked porcelain their friendship stood on would fall apart. Then Mireira would be left shaking and alone without Yatzil to hold her hand like she did when they were teens.

It was a bizarre thought that Yatzil sought her touch out when she used to be the girl who squirmed out of hugs. She couldn’t place when the shift happened. Now she was the one trembling and cuddling up to Mireia. Maybe Yatzil changed a lot since school, but Mireira certainly didn’t and it was this steadiness that brought her peace. Her house was always overwhelming, Santi yelling, shattered glass, and even the laughter of his drunk friends. This home was the opposite with the only noise being the hum of air conditioning that’d lull her to sleep most nights.

Of course the quiet peace wouldn’t last. The universe liked to fight her for anything she found joy in. “Leave him,” Mireia whispered into the silence. Her voice was neutral, but Yatzil heard it as the plea that it was. There was nothing she could say to that, where would I go? Would be met with stay with me, and if Mireia asked she just might. Of course, she could just lie, say she’s happy or it’s all fine. By now Mireia knew too much to believe that. It’d been too long since she’d lied to Mireia anyway. She’d probably do it wrong.

“My family was ecstatic when I got married,” was what she decided on. “I hadn’t seen my amá smile in years till then.” She didn’t say how it’d break her mother’s heart if she left because Mireia knew. Just like how she knew the issue was never just whether Santiago or Mireia would love her better. It’s that she wanted the love of everyone. She wanted her mother, the old ladies at her work who cooed over her wedding photos, and maybe even one day the love of a child. She wanted so many things that weren’t a possibility if she lived a life with Mireira. It was too dark to see, but Yatzil could feel the change in her expression. Everything from the glassiness of Miriera’s brown eyes to the frowns etching their way onto her pale face.

They went into a restless sleep, and like always Yatzil would leave before Mireia awoke. The bed creaked as she rose and she thought it may be the sound of her heart being squeezed, but she ignored it every time. Just how Mireia would ignore the chill of waking up alone, and busied herself with getting ready for work. It was almost time to leave when she saw her abandoned teacup was missing. Eventually, she found it in the microwave warm, but with a chip in it. She drank it of course even if it cut her lip. I need to tell her to stop doing this, she thought. She’d leave that issue for the next night.

 
 

About the Author

Victoria Pasion was born and raised in Southern California. They have an interest in martial arts, specifically Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and Muay Thai. However they mostly focus on their writing which is why they study creative writing at OCSA. They have never been published before.